By Charles Foster
The Lancet
Originally published June 2, 2012
A profoundly brain-damaged teenage girl is brought to hospital. The nurses undress her and leave her, uncovered, on a trolley in front of some lascivious youths who are waiting in the Accident and Emergency Department. She seems to enjoy receiving their attention; they enjoy giving it. Is this wrong? Yes it is. But what language describes the wrongness? Certainly the four principles laid out by Tom Beauchamp and James Childress in their classic Principles of Biomedical Ethics (autonomy, beneficence, non-maleficence, and justice) can't really help, or can't help without straining uncomfortably. Autonomy isn't offended. Insofar as the girl is capable of exercising autonomous thought, she's all for it, and so are the boys. And there's no real harm here, as harm would conventionally be described. One might say that the maxim “Do good” has been violated, but what does “good” mean?
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In answering that question, and in saying what is meant by “good”, it is hard to avoid using words like dignity. And that, for many, is rather embarrassing. Dignity has a bad reputation among some philosophers. It tends to be thought of as feel-good philosophical window-dressing—the name you give to whatever principle gives you the answer you think is right; as a substitute for hard thinking; as impossibly amorphous or (because of its historical association with the notion of the Imago Dei), as incurably theological. Dignity-peddlers, it tends to be thought, are selling metaphysical snake oil.
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Beauchamp and Childress sometimes falter because their principles are second-order principles, derived ultimately from dignity. Sometimes, to get the right ethical answer, you've got to go to the source. Burrow down deep enough into any bioethical conundrum, and you'll eventually hit dignity.
The entire article is here.
