This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. Sign up for it here. Seventy-five. That’s how long I want to live: 75 years. This preference drives my daughters crazy. It drives my brothers crazy. My loving friends think I am crazy. They think that I can’t mean what I say; that I haven’t
This is the part everyone agrees on: A 8-year-old boy died at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center in August 2013. His liver and kidneys were donated for transplant. The Los Angeles Times reports police are now investigating exactly how he died at the hospital. The boy—though not technically brain dead—had suffered so much brain damage after a near drowning that doctors determined he would never wake
Advances in medicine can prolong life, but they can also make it more difficult for doctors to know when a patient has truly died. We tried our best, but CPR, an injection of epinephrine, and 360 joules of electricity all failed to restart Mrs. Melnyk’s heart. When everybody on the resuscitation team agreed that we could do no more, I said the words: “Time of death, 9:32.” As we cleaned up, a youn
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