Tyler Tate

We begin this commentary with a brief analysis of “Making Medical Decisions for Children with Profound Cognitive Disabilities: Pluralism and the Best Interest Standard,” by Pierce Randall, and “A Life Worth Sustaining? Bestowed Worth and Pediatric Care,” by Daniel T. Kim and Xiang Yu, in the same issue of the Hastings Center Report. These two articles examine decision-making for children with profound cognitive disabilities and critique the relational potential standard found in pediatric ethics. We agree with the authors that the relational potential standard risks using children as a means to other people's ends. We also raise two additional concerns: the standard is incongruent with parents’ self-descriptions, and it neglects the concept of goodness, which we take to be the fundamental concern of pediatric ethical analysis. We close with a brief discussion of goodness and consider how goodness might serve as the lodestar of pediatric ethics.

There is an ongoing debate in bioethics regarding the nature of suffering. This conversation revolves around the following question: What kind of thing, exactly, is suffering? Specifically, is suffering a subjective phenomenon—intrinsically linked to personhood, personal values, feelings, and lived experience—or an objective affair, amenable to impersonal criteria and existing as an independent feature of the natural world? Notably, the implications of this determination are politically and ethically significant. This essay attempts to bring clarity to the subjective versus objective debate in suffering scholarship by examining the history of the concept of “objectivity,” and putting that history in conversation with physician Eric Cassell’s famous theory of suffering. It concludes with a novel, albeit tentative, definition of suffering: suffering is the experience of a gap between how things are and how things ought to be.

This essay explores the relationship between the modern era’s impulse toward control and the practices of family planning and disability-selective abortion. Drawing from experiences as a pediatric palliative care physician working within a busy fetal care program, as well as the social theory of sociologist Hartmut Rosa, the author argues that there is an unresolved cultural and professional conflict within perinatal medicine between maximizing control of the future and maximizing a culture of anti-ableism.

This article presents a radical claim: American medical ethics is broken, and it needs love to be healed. Due to a unique set of cultural and economic pressures, American medical ethics has adopted a mechanistic mode of ethical reasoning epitomized by the doctrine of principlism. This mode of reasoning divorces clinicians from both their patients and themselves. This results in clinicians who can ace ethics questions on multiple‐choice tests but who fail either to recognize a patient's humanity or to navigate the ethical quandaries into which they are frequently thrown. Drawing on personal experience as well as the philosophical work of Augustine of Hippo, Simone Weil, and Iris Murdoch, we propose a novel ethical approach grounded in a conception of neighbor love, specifically, the virtue of love understood as attention to a sufferer's humanity. We conclude with five practical recommendations for reimagining medical ethics education oriented around the virtue of love.

In this paper I aim to show why pediatric suffering must be understood as a judgment or evaluation, rather than a mental state. To accomplish this task, first I analyze the various ways that the label of suffering is used in pediatric practice. Out of this analysis emerge what I call the twin poles of pediatric suffering. At one pole sits the belief that infants and children with severe cognitive impairment cannot suffer because they are nonverbal or lack subjective life experience. At the other pole exists the idea that once child suffering reaches some threshold it is ethical to eliminate the sufferer. Concerningly, at both poles, any particular child vanishes from view. Second, in an attempt to identify a theory of suffering inclusive of children, I examine two prominent so-called experiential accounts of suffering. I find them both wanting on account of their absurd entailments and their flawed assumptions regarding the subjective experiences of people who cannot communicate expressively. Finally, I extend arguments found in Alastair MacIntyre’s Dependent Rational Animals to argue that child suffering can be understood only as a set of absences—absences of conditions such as love, warmth, and freedom from pain. An evaluation of these absences reveals the exquisite dependency of children. It also discloses why pediatric suffering is necessarily a social and political event. Unlike adults, children will never be either the authors or the mitigators of their own suffering. Rather, children must rely wholly on others in order to resist suffering, grow, and flourish.

There are two widespread beliefs about the use of metaphors in clinical medicine. The first is that military metaphors are harmful to patients and should be discouraged in medical practice. The second is that the metaphors of clinical practice can be judged by and standardized in reference to neutral criteria. In this article, I evaluate both these beliefs, exposing their shared flawed logic. This logic underwrites the false empiricist assumptions that metaphorical language and literal language are fundamentally distinct, play separate roles in communication, and therefore can be independently analyzed, systematized, and prescribed. Next, using the resources of ordinary language philosophy, I lay out a theoretical view of medical metaphors that is grounded in metaphor use within clinician‐patient relationships. Finally, drawing on the work of philosopher Max Black, I diagram a practical conceptual framework for clinicians to use when they consider whether a metaphor is appropriate for a specific patient encounter.

Marie was 15 when her abdominal pain began. After two years of negative work-ups, countless visits to gastroenterologists, and over 70 days of high school missed, she found herself readmitted to the hospital. “Refractory abdominal pain” was her ostensible diagnosis; “troubled teen” who was “going to be difficult” was embedded in the emergency department’s sign-out. When the medical team arrived to meet Marie, she was huddled in the corner of her hospital bed, silent and withdrawn. Her intern noted the numerous scars cutting across her forearms as she felt for her radial pulses. Marie squirmed in pain when the intern palpated her abdomen.The ED’s work-up had been negative for abdominal pathology. When the...

As I stood outside of Carlos's room, I felt caught on the horns of a dilemma. It seemed impossible to truly “be there” for Carlos without sacrificing my other intern duties. This tension pervaded much of my residency training, as I often found myself spending more time completing chart notes, answering pages, and giving sign out than I did at the bedside with my patients. I knew I had a duty to “do my job”—I could not let my team down. But what about my duty to Carlos, a duty to act on my intuition and try to “get to the bottom” of his illness, if that was even possible? And what about my thirteen other patients? Wasn't I was their doctor as well? I have spent countless hours studying the ethical frameworks for medical rationing. And yet no framework could have told me how to weigh my intuition in that crucial moment of decision-making, or when it was okay to leave a few notes unfinished in order to have the time to talk with Carlos. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do.