We all have mountains to climb -- problems that intrude in our lives and test our mettle. But few of us would strap those mountains on our backs and then climb Kilimanjaro.
That's what sets Delbert "Del" Madsen apart. On Election Day last November, Madsen, who works for the LDS Church in Atlanta, got some bad news. He was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, better known as Lou Gehrig's disease. It is a fatal illness with no cure. Its victims degenerate until they no longer can swallow or move. Generally, they die from oxygen deprivation.As obstacles go, it is larger than the largest mountain. It is expensive to treat, and it goes right to the heart of a public debate that is gripping much of the nation -- one that concerns itself with when a life has lost its essential quality and no longer is worth living.
As I spoke with Madsen from his home in Georgia last week, Dr. Jack Kevorkian was stumbling through his own defense against murder charges in Michigan. The so-called "suicide doctor" is accused of killing Thomas Youk, a 52-year-old victim of the same disease. Kevorkian was trying to use mercy as a defense for murder, trying to persuade a jury that it's OK to kill someone if that person's life is no longer of any use.
Madsen watched the "60 Minutes" episode in which Kevorkian's videotape of the killing was shown, and it disturbed him. He would rather concern himself with how much value any life can have, right up until its last breath.
Which is why he and his daughter, Christine, who lives in Utah, scaled the 19,340-foot Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, reaching the summit on Valentine's Day. The two had wanted to climb the mountain for years, but things kept getting in the way. Now Madsen, who will turn 70 in September, had a reason and a sense of urgency.
They decided not to tell any other member of their hiking group about Madsen's condition. "I was afraid they wouldn't let me go if they found out," he said. And so, father and daughter worked as a team to scale the heights and to keep everyone thinking everything was normal.
Madsen's legs remained strong, but he was beginning to lose strength in his arms, and small motor skills had become virtually impossible. At suppertime, Christine would carefully cut the food on her plate, then, when no one was looking, switch plates with her father. She would button his buttons and help him in other ways. "I couldn't have done it without her," he said.
Five days after starting, they reached the summit. Madsen felt little discomfort from the high altitude. He had reached his goal and stood triumphant with his daughter. Then, on the way down, his neck muscles began to weaken.
"I was walking with our guide alone," he said. "We were going briskly. I said I was tired and wanted to slow down. After awhile, we went on again and I stumbled. I couldn't catch myself because my arms were too weak. I bonked my forehead on some rocks."
It was the start of a rocky descent that took two days. Christine has pictures of her father on the mountain with scabs on his head. "At the end of the climb he was having a hard time walking a straight line because of his neck," she said.
As I write this, Madsen has a glimmer of hope. Doctors say there is a chance he has a variant of the disease that is treatable. If true, it would be a tremendous relief. But the road ahead still would be difficult.
Could Madsen ever conceive of a time when he would want to commit suicide? At first, the question makes him chuckle. "I can't commit suicide. I'd be killing an innocent man," he said.
Then he turns serious as he ponders what might happen. "My first inclination is not to have any intervention," he said. What he means is he doesn't want to be kept alive on life support. He would prefer to die naturally. "But," he is quick to note, "there is a difference between that and having someone kill you."
The difference is enormous, and it is one Kevorkian seems unable to grasp.
Deseret News editorial page editor Jay Evensen may be reached by e-mail at even@desnews.com.