Who says New York doesn’t have the death penalty.

Just yesterday, the Appellate Division of state Supreme Court said that Dorothy Lividas had to die. The request to extend the one-week stay of her execution was denied.
 
Her crime?
 
Living too long.
 
It’s time to pull the plug.

She’s one flip of the respirator switch away from slipping away, one quiet little suffocation is all that stands between her and the great beyond.
 
And the hospital would like to see it happen sooner rather than later. That’s why its lawyers went to court to pull the plug.
 
But that’s getting ahead of the story.
 
Dorothy Livadas has lived a long and sometimes colorful life. Ensconced in a big East Avenue mansion, she kissed Jimmy Carter on the lips, hobnobbed with bigwigs and always spoke her mind. For 50 years, in publications near and far, the former social worker and journalist was frequently published in the letters section, opining on one thing or another. Earlier in her life she toured the country and the world representing, with her husband, Greek Americans, but for the last couple of decades she has been, for all intents and purposes, a dowager, a venerable woman of fire and refinement.
 
But time has done to her what it will do to us all, and for most of a year she has been in what her doctors call a vegetative state.
 
And at 97 they say enough is enough.
 

The problem is, her daughter doesn’t agree.
 
Ianthe Livadas says her mother is still there, that there are facial expressions sometimes that she recognizes, that are her mother’s soul, not just her mother’s body.
 
Dorothy Livadas made her daughter her health care proxy, and gave her her power of attorney. Ianthe Livadas is Dorothy’s flesh and blood and her legal guardian.
 
Or at least she was until she stopped going along with the hospital.
 
When the doctors said Dorothy should be unplugged and her daughter said she shouldn’t, the hospital unleashed its lawyers and took Ianthe to court.
 
Where she was stripped of the powers her mother had given her. The judge turned those over to a Catholic charity, a division of the local diocese, which promptly gave the order to unplug her.
 
Since then it’s been a legal fight.
 
A fight which now seems to be approaching its end.
 
Since Ianthe had her rights taken by the courts, the family home has been almost foreclosed upon, the utilities were turned off – even though Ianthe was living in it – and just this week there was a burglary.
 
And through it all, Ianthe has frantically fought to keep her mother alive.
 
Which is understandable. People typically love their parents, and want them to live. And sometimes love engenders an unfounded hope. Sometimes people want things that are not possible or realistic.
 
And Dorothy Livadas may be, for all intents and purposes, already dead.
 
But it is morally inconceivable that the decision to end her life should be made by anyone other than her family. This is not a matter of science, medicine or law, it is a matter of flesh and blood. It is not and will never be the business of doctors to overrule the wishes of an incapacitated person’s loved ones.
 
This is not an issue of when life ends or what life is worth sustaining, it is not about whether you or I would want to be kept alive under these circumstances, it is a matter of the primacy of the family. What is involved here is a battle over the power of life and death, a litigated war to determine whether a diploma and a state medical license trump the prerogatives of kinship.
 
This is not truly a pro-life fight, it is a pro-choice fight – with the principle under attack being who gets to make the choice. It is quite likely that the decision of the doctors – to unplug the ventilator – is the “right” choice, but the fundamental and determining fact is that it is not their choice to make.
 
This case illustrates an encroachment of the power of the institution and the state on the rights of families. A New York court has said that Ianthe Livadas is powerless to stop a hospital from unplugging, and consequently killing, her mother. That means that anyone – including you – can similarly be deprived of the right to make health-care decisions for their family.
 
And that must not be tolerated.
 
There probably aren’t any bad guys in this matter. Doctors don’t spend their young adulthood in school so they can kill people. They enter their profession to save life and alleviate suffering. They are angels, not devils. It is absolutely likely that the actions of the doctors in this matter are intended to render relief, protect dignity and administer mercy. They quite likely are doing what they think is best for Dorothy Livadas.
 
And all end-of-life situations like this are both trying and morally difficult. Heaven help anyone who has to go through this, for themselves or a loved one – or a patient.
 
But amidst the ethical, medical and spiritual confusions associated with ending treatment and inviting death, one principle must ever be true. The choice is that of the conscious patient or, when that patient is incapable, of that patient’s proxy or family.
 
And in a state whose courts are forbidden to kill killers, those courts should also be denied the power to kill enfeebled old ladies.
 
The decision, morally, must belong to Ianthe Livadas -- even if she gets it wrong.
 
Blood is thicker than a medical degree.

It may be a well-intentioned idea.

               
But it is ill conceived.

               
The notion of having some Monroe County employees work four days a week instead of five sounds good, but isn’t. And while some employees might like the arrangement, for others it would be horrible.

               
The purpose is to save energy and cut expenses.

               
At least that’s what the two sponsors in the county legislature claim. Proving that confusion can be bipartisan, a Republican and a Democrat have suggested that the county consider moving some employees from five eight-hour days each week to four 10-hour days.

               
Theoretically, energy would be saved because county offices would only need to be heated and lit for four days a week, instead of five.

               
Which is the first weakness of this plan.

               
It doesn’t matter how many days per week you’re paying for utilities, it matters how many hours. It is true that with a four-day week you wouldn’t have to turn on the lights on Friday – if that is the day people have off. But that won’t make any difference to the total number of utility hours.

               
If you work eight hours a day for five days, that’s 40 hours. If you work 10 hours a day for four days, that’s 40 hours. And 40 hours equals 40 hours. The number of hours people would be working in county buildings each week would be unchanged, the hours you would need heat and light would be unchanged, and the expense of heating and lighting those buildings would be unchanged.

               
There are two potential strengths for the plan. Employees could save gasoline and have longer weekends. Commuting to work four days a week instead of five would be a 20-percent reduction in gas for work. That’s good, especially if you have to drive a long distance.

               
And there’s no doubt that many county employees would gladly work longer days in order to get a longer weekend. That could be a great choice.

               
But the problem is that some employees couldn’t or wouldn’t make that choice. And forcing this policy on those employees – essentially changing the terms of their employment – would be a terrible imposition.

               
Here are some examples.

               
If you work for the county, and have children in daycare, and all of a sudden you get off work at 7 instead of 5, will your daycare still be open? If it is still open, does it charge a higher rate for children kept that late?

               
What about moms and dads who arrange it so that one works during the day and the other works in the evening, so that one of them can always be home with the children. What if all of a sudden the day-working county-employed parent has to stay two hours later and that overlaps with the night-working parent’s schedule?

               
What about county employees who are taking night classes? Maybe they’re at a local college or taking a real-estate course, or maybe it’s a yoga class or an EMT class so they can volunteer on the local ambulance. If those classes start at 6 or 7 in the evening, as so many of them do, the employee who works until 7 won’t be able to take them.

               
Those who volunteer after work or in the evening may find they no longer can. If you’re the Scout master or the Little League coach, or go out to the jail or the hospital to visit people, or if you help make dinner at the homeless shelter, working those two extra hours into the evening will make you too late to continue these acts of service.

               
And what about family?

               
If you have a child playing sports in school, you can make most soccer games and track meets if you get off work at 5. But if you work until 7, you’re the parent who never gets to go to the games. For some parents, that would be a heart-breaking turn of events.

               
And then there’s dinner.

               
Many busy families make a point of trying to eat dinner together every night, so they can talk and be together at least a little bit each day. For many families, eating dinner together is a priceless time.

               
But if mom or dad works until 7 four nights a week, that means that mom or dad will miss dinner four nights a week. For single parents, that would mean that, unless you push dinnertime well past when many young people get hungry, there is no parent home to fix or eat dinner.

               
That’s a heavy burden to force on employees.

               
But employees aren’t the only ones who would take a hit under this policy.

               
What happens, for example, to those businesses that serve lunch to county employees. A variety of restaurants, diners and fast food places serve pretty good numbers of county workers. Those employees are an important part of the clientele of those businesses. If all of a sudden, those customers only need lunch four days a week, instead of five, that’s a 20-percent loss of potential customers for those businesses – and for those businesses employees.

               
The county shouldn’t be in the business of hurting somebody’s lunch trade or somebody else’s tips.

               
And finally, there are the customers.

               
In spite of the bellyaching about government employees, most of them actually do stuff that’s pretty important. Most county workers are providing direct services that people, in one form or another, need in a timely manner. County residents need five-day access to their government, not four-day access. If the county goes to a four-day week, the rest of the world will still be on a five-day week, and that mismatch will be hard on residents and businesses.

               
Finally, there is the issue of the eight-hour workday. Though many people, in the private and public sectors, work more than eight hours a day, American society has generally settled on eight hours as appropriate for one day’s labor. In fact, the union movement in America – and the Eastman Kodak Company in Rochester – has the eight-hour workday as one of its greatest contributions to the country.

               
Eight hours seems to balance productivity, health and personal life. People certainly can do more, but our society has decided over decades that typically that more comes at too high a personal cost to the worker. That is especially true for employees who may be older, have health issues, have physically demanding jobs, or have heavy responsibilities at home.

               
Monroe County should not abandon the eight-hour workday too cavalierly. Generations of workers fought too hard to get it for it now to be thrown away on a whim.

               
This idea has some significant downsides, most of which would be borne by county employees. Again, for some workers it would be a great fit. But there is real potential for others that it would be a great burden.

               
It only seems fair that any sort of policy like this come after thorough consultation with county employees and residents. Having it be merely the decision of lawmakers would be legal, but it would also be imprudent and disrespectful.

               
Again, this idea may be well intentioned.

               
But it is ill conceived.

On this day in 1978, I had bacon and eggs and hashbrowns for breakfast.

I wore a brand-new navy-blue doubleknit polyester suit from Mr. Mac's with a white shirt and a blue tie with little flowers on it.

That was the day I became a Mormon missionary.

My college roommate dropped me off at the Salt Lake Missionary Home and carrying my suitcase and my backpack and a manila envelope full of papers I mingled with the 200 other new missionaries and wondered what the future held.

Five days later I was on the way to Gallup, New Mexico. The lady at the Salt Lake Airport was surprised when I asked for a seat in the smoking section. My thinking was that, if I sat in smoking I had a better chance of sitting by a non-Mormon. And if I sat by a non-Mormon, I could tell him about my church. The guy I sat with on the flight from Salt Lake to Denver got an earful and left with two pamphlets and a Book of Mormon. The lady beside me on the flight from Denver to Gallup got the same treatment and the same parting gifts.

The mission president picked me -- and a sister missionary -- up at the airport and we drove to Holbrook, Arizona, and the next morning we got our assignments. I was going to the Hopi Reservation.

But that night I went to a drive-in instead.

Which was surprising, because Mormon missionaries aren't supposed to go to the movies. But it was me, the new guy, and three others, so I sat there in the back of a pick-up truck with them, trying not to look at the movie, feeling miserable for breaking the rules. I still wore my brand-new navy-blue doublekint polyester suit from Mr. Mac's.
It was the hardest thing I've ever done.

That day, that area, that year, the second year. It was all hard. It made the Army seem like a cakewalk. It was the hardest and best time of my life.

And 30 years later all I can do is look back on three decades of gratitude for two years of privilege. At the time, those two years seemed like they would last forever, like they were a nearly insufferable length of time. But now I know they were the blink of eye, a break before adulthood to do something worthwhile, a chance to focus on the divine before the necessity of the mundane came to dominate life and its labors.

I learned so much. About people, about God, about how hot it can get in the middle of an Arizona summer, about why they call prickly pears prickly pears, about why you should never trust a reservation dog, about why it's good to know how to do your own cooking and cleaning. About how good it is to look at the guy in the mirror and not have anything against him.

I saw miracles. Literally. I saw a spring of water erupt from the dry mountain soil in answer to a thirsty prayer. I saw the force of evil, in bottles of alcohol and crippling traditions and in spirits that crept up on you as you slept. I saw people whose lives found direction and faith, people who took Jesus as friend and Savior. I saw young men who learned about faith and obedience and sacrifice, who stopped whining about themselves and focused on others. I was honored to be among them, to be one of them.

And I made the best friends of my life. Which is odd to say because I've kept up with almost none of them. As I write this, I am clicking between screens, Googling names I remember of missionaries I loved. Teen-agers like myself who had left home and school and girlfriends to chop wood and haul water and knock on doors. We ended up the closest of friends, drawn together by the work we did and the stage of life we shared.

It got better after a while. I felt less out of my element, less isolated amongst people I didn't know. I came to understand the personal dynamic of a Mormon mission. I loosened up a bit. I lost myself in the work. I told people what I believed, and that made what I believed more important to me, closer to me, more essential to me.

Eventually the Mr. Mac's suit wore shiny on the knees and the seat of the pants. The lining on the coat ripped and hung in tatters. The tie, all of my ties, got splotches and stains. The heels of my shoes wore off at an angle and I had to punch new holes in my belt. I didn't always obey the rules, but I got better at that, and I always asked to sit in the smoking section, and the last Book of Mormon I gave away as a missionary was on the flight home.

I've not been a particularly good person since. I've probably been a particularly bad person. I've not always lived up to my faith and I've probably often embarrassed it.

But in my way I've never stopped being a missionary. I don't wear a suit and I don't carry my scriptures and I don't represent a church. But I do what I can do. I used to drive across the reservation and knock on doors trying to find somebody to listen to what I believe. Now a radio company lets me borrow a couple of its transmitters every day to tell people what I believe. Just like newspaper and television companies which have previously employed me.

This week I'll talk or write to about 150,000 people and I hope they don't mind if somewhere in between the politics and the kids and the crush on Marie Osmond I mention that there is a God and that we should pray to him and that he sent his Son to save us. It's not exactly like being a missionary, but from a numbers standpoint, it's a whole lot more efficient.

And I'll keep it up as long as the opportunity is there. I'll keep it up until I am released.

The Lord trusted me with a big responsibility then. And he's trusting me with a big responsibility now. I was better at it 30 years ago, because I was a better person 30 years ago. But it is what it is and I am what I am. And as hard as it got, I didn't quit then. And as hard as it gets, I'm not going to quit now. After you've had enough doors slammed in your face, after you've been told enough times that you're going to hell, the curses of politicians and activists don't really amount to much. There is only one thing you need in life, and that is the approval of your own conscience. Did I do my duty today? Did I say what I was supposed to say? Did I stand up for truth? If you can answer yes, you can sleep peacefully at night. If you can't, you try harder tomorrow.

It's been 30 years today.

And I still like bacon and eggs and hashbrowns for breakfast.