Part A: Death, Dying, and Advance Planning
An Introduction to Bioethics.
In January 1983, 25-year-old Nancy Cruzan lost control of her car on an icy Missouri road and was thrown into a ditch. Paramedics restarted her heart, but her brain had gone too long without oxygen. She never woke up.
Years later she still breathes on her own. Her eyes open. She has cycles of sleep and waking. But she never tracks a face, never responds, never shows a sign that anyone is home. Her parents say she would have hated living this way, and they ask the hospital to stop the feeding tube that keeps her alive.
Write or discuss:
Note
Nancy’s case hides two different questions that people constantly run together.
A patient can be clearly gone with no decision left to make (she is simply dead), or fully present but unable to speak for herself, or — like Nancy — somewhere in between, where both questions are live at once. Today we take them one at a time.
By the end of Part A, you will be able to:
The everyday words for this topic are loaded. “Vegetable,” “life support,” and “pulling the plug” all smuggle in judgments before the argument starts.
The vocabulary is often where the ethics is hiding.
Arousal vs. awareness
Consciousness has two parts, and they can come apart.
A patient can be aroused but not aware (eyes open, no one home). That combination is what makes end-of-life cases so hard, and why “unconscious” is too blunt a word for these states.
These are not stops on a single dial. Locked-in patients are fully aware, off on their own axis — proof of how wrong a bedside guess can be.
A coma is a state of deep unresponsiveness: no arousal and no awareness. The eyes stay closed, and there are no sleep-wake cycles.
In a vegetative state, the brainstem recovers enough for arousal but the cortex does not recover awareness. The patient’s eyes open, they have sleep-wake cycles, they may grimace or moan — but there is no sign of experience.
The word persistent means it has lasted a while; permanent is a prediction that it will not reverse — generally after 3 months (non-traumatic) or 12 months (traumatic injury). (The Multi-Society Task Force on PVS 1994)
Important
This is where Nancy Cruzan was.
Her eyes opened. She had sleep-wake cycles. Reflexes worked. To a visitor she could look almost awake — which is exactly why her family’s request to stop her feeding tube struck many people as killing, not letting die.
A minimally conscious state is a step up from vegetative: the patient shows inconsistent but real signs of awareness — following a simple command once, tracking a person with their eyes, reaching for a cup.
Locked-in syndrome is the mirror image of the vegetative state. Damage to the ventral pons in the brainstem paralyzes nearly every voluntary muscle, while the cortex is completely intact.
The patient is fully awake and aware — thinking, feeling, hearing every word said over the bed — but can often move only their eyes. They are not gone at all. They are trapped.
Why it belongs here
Locked-in patients have been mistaken for vegetative for months. From the outside, a fully conscious person and an unaware one can look the same — so any confidence about “no one is home” should carry a margin of doubt.
For most of history, death was obvious: the heart stopped, breathing stopped, the body went cold. You did not need a definition.
Two mid-century technologies broke that simplicity.
“A Definition of Irreversible Coma”
In 1968 an ad hoc committee at Harvard Medical School proposed a new basis for declaring death: not a stopped heart, but a permanently nonfunctioning brain. (Ad Hoc Committee of the Harvard Medical School to Examine the Definition of Brain Death 1968)
Their tests were practical and strict — no response to stimuli, no movement or breathing, no reflexes, a flat EEG — repeated after 24 hours to confirm irreversibility.
This was a genuine shift. For the first time, a breathing, beating body could be declared dead on the basis of its brain.
By 1981 the idea had matured into a legal standard. The President’s Commission endorsed it (President’s Commission for the Study of Ethical Problems in Medicine and Biomedical and Behavioral Research 1981), and the Uniform Determination of Death Act put it into statute across the states (National Conference of Commissioners on Uniform State Laws 1981).
A person is dead who has sustained either:
The second clause is whole-brain death. Both routes are legally death — equally final, equally complete.
Declaring whole-brain death is not a guess; it follows a fixed clinical protocol.
Only when every part fails, with no reversible cause, is the patient declared dead — even while the ventilator keeps the chest rising.
The whole-brain standard (the law)
Death is the irreversible loss of the brain’s role as the body’s integrator. It is a biological fact we discover.
The challengers
The legal line and the philosophical question do not perfectly match — the law fixes a usable boundary where the metaphysics stays open.
In 2025, Adriana Smith, a pregnant nurse in Georgia, was declared brain-dead after a medical emergency. By the whole-brain standard, she was legally dead.
But she was about nine weeks pregnant, and hospital staff read Georgia’s strict abortion law as requiring them to keep her body on support to let the fetus develop. Her body was maintained for months over her family’s objections.
Discuss:
The Adriana Smith case is a collision of three bodies of law that rarely meet.
Discuss: When these three frameworks conflict, which should win — and who should decide that they conflict at all?
Note
The Smith case turns on a distinction worth stating outright.
These are not the same problem. Confusing them is the single most common mistake in end-of-life debates: arguing about what someone is when the real disagreement is about what we are permitted to do.
A competent adult may accept or refuse any treatment, including life-sustaining treatment — that is settled ground. The hard cases begin only when the patient loses the capacity to decide.
When a patient cannot decide, most states follow an ordered chain to find a surrogate — a stand-in decision-maker.
Substituted judgment
The surrogate asks: “What would this patient have wanted?” — not what the surrogate wants, and not what is best in the abstract.
It is an attempt to honor the patient’s own values when she can no longer voice them. Past statements, religious commitments, and how she lived all become evidence.
Its weakness: we are often guessing. Studies show surrogates predict patients’ wishes only a little better than chance. The harder the case, the thinner the evidence tends to be.
Best interest
When we have no idea what the patient would have wanted — a young child, a lifelong intellectual disability, a stranger with no record — substituted judgment has nothing to work with.
Then the surrogate falls back to asking: “What is best for someone in this situation?” — weighing benefits, burdens, pain, and prospects for recovery.
This standard is more objective, but it is also more paternalistic: it can override what an unusual patient might actually have chosen for herself.
| Substituted judgment | Best interest | |
|---|---|---|
| Question asked | What would this patient have wanted? | What is best for someone here? |
| Needs | Evidence of the patient’s values | A judgment about benefits/burdens |
| Used when | We know something about the patient | We know little or nothing |
| Risk | Guessing, projection | Paternalism |
Courts generally prefer substituted judgment when there is real evidence, and treat best interest as the fallback — which is exactly why written evidence became so valuable.
Nancy’s parents asked Missouri to let them stop her feeding tube. The state refused, and in 1990 the case became the first “right to die” dispute the U.S. Supreme Court ever heard. (Supreme Court of the United States 1990)
The Court’s holding was narrow but pivotal:
The ruling sent the family back to find better evidence — and they did.
The case that demanded evidence of her wishes is the reason millions of Americans now write those wishes down.
If the law would honor a patient’s wishes only with clear evidence, the obvious response was to create the evidence in advance.
A living will states, in advance, what treatments you would or would not want if you become unable to decide and are terminally ill or permanently unconscious.
A durable power of attorney for health care does something different: instead of guessing every scenario, you name a person to decide for you.
“Durable” means it stays in effect after you lose capacity — which is the whole point.
The named agent can respond to the actual situation, ask questions, and reason the way you would, rather than being limited to a checklist written years earlier.
Note
Why many ethicists prefer it
A scenario you never imagined cannot be covered by a living will. But a trusted person who knows your values can adapt. Naming an agent transfers judgment, not just instructions.
A POLST (Physician Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment; MOLST in some states) is not an advance directive. The difference matters.
| Living will | Durable POA | POLST / MOLST | |
|---|---|---|---|
| What it is | Your stated wishes | A named decision-maker | A doctor’s standing order |
| Who fills it out | Any adult | Any adult | Clinician + patient |
| For whom | Anyone planning ahead | Anyone planning ahead | The seriously/terminally ill |
| When it kicks in | You lose capacity | You lose capacity | Immediately, as an order |
| Binds EMS? | Not directly | Through the agent | Yes, directly |
A simplified living-will excerpt (illustrative only)
If I am terminally ill or permanently unconscious, and two physicians agree my condition will not improve, I direct that:
- I do not want cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR).
- I do not want a breathing machine to be used or continued.
- I do want medication to keep me comfortable, even if it shortens my life.
I appoint my sister, Maria, as my health care agent to make any decision not covered above.
Real forms are longer and state-specific — but this is the shape of the thing.
Advance directives are powerful, but they are not a solution to everything.
These gaps are where the worst end-of-life conflicts begin.
Your father has had a massive stroke and cannot communicate or swallow. The team asks whether to place a feeding tube. He left no living will, but years ago he named you as his health care agent.
You remember him saying, after visiting his own mother in a nursing home, “Don’t ever let me end up like that.” But you are not certain he meant this.
States have tried to make the 3 a.m. version of your father’s case easier.
Discuss: Would a POLST have made your decision easier, or just moved the hard judgment earlier — onto the doctor who signed it?
Note
A distinction clinicians feel even though the law treats the two alike:
Ethically and legally, these are considered equivalent — if it is permissible not to start, it is permissible to stop. But many caregivers feel withdrawing is far harder, as if it causes the death. That gap between law and feeling is where Part B begins.
In February 1990, 26-year-old Terri Schiavo collapsed at home in Florida from cardiac arrest. Like Nancy Cruzan, her brain was starved of oxygen, and she entered a persistent vegetative state.
The tools we just studied — the directive, the named agent — were exactly what she did not have.
By the late 1990s the family had split, and the split was total.
With no written directive, the case became a contest of credibility: whose account of Terri’s wishes should the court believe?
What made Schiavo unique was not the medicine — it was how far the fight traveled. (Quill 2005)
Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube was removed, and she died on March 31, 2005, fifteen years after her collapse.
The autopsy settled the medical facts. It did not settle the ethical and political dispute — by then the case had become a national argument about life, disability, and who should decide, and the autopsy changed almost no one’s mind.
| Case | Year | State | The new question it raised |
|---|---|---|---|
| Quinlan | 1976 | NJ | May a surrogate withdraw a ventilator? (Yes.) |
| Cruzan | 1990 | MO | May a state demand clear evidence of wishes? (Yes.) |
| Schiavo | 2005 | FL | What happens when the family itself splits? |
Quinlan opened the door to refusing treatment. Cruzan set the evidentiary price. Schiavo showed that even with both settled, a divided family and a missing directive can still tear everything apart.
(Karen Ann Quinlan, notably, kept breathing for nearly a decade after her ventilator was removed — a reminder that “removing life support” does not always mean immediate death.)
The Schiavo circus was extreme, but its ingredients are ordinary.
Every tool in this lecture exists to keep an ordinary tragedy from becoming a Schiavo. None of them works if the documents are never filled out.
We took two questions in turn. Is the person gone? led us through coma, vegetative and minimally conscious states, and the whole-brain definition of death. Who decides? led us through the surrogate hierarchy, substituted judgment versus best interest, and the documents — living wills, durable powers of attorney, and POLST — that Cruzan made essential.
Every case so far shared one feature: the question was whether to let the dying happen — to stop or withhold treatment. Part B crosses a sharper line: not letting die, but actively ending a life on request. The same patient, the same suffering — but a question that divides medicine far more deeply.
Recall
Name the two clauses of the Uniform Determination of Death Act, and explain how a vegetative state differs from whole-brain death.
Apply
A patient with advanced dementia and no advance directive develops pneumonia. Her three children disagree about antibiotics. Which surrogate standard applies, and what would you need to know to use it?
Debate
Should states be allowed to require “clear and convincing evidence” of a patient’s wishes before a family may stop treatment, as Cruzan permits — or does that set the bar too high?
Bioethics OER · CC BY-NC 4.0 · Brendan Shea