In the realm of science, we often confront the dichotomy of creation and chaos. Author Marc Barham, in Mary Shelley and the Birth of ‘Frankenstein’ (1818), engages with the profound questions raised by Mary Shelley’s iconic work, Frankenstein.

Shelley was remarkably prescient in her storytelling. Did her intuition guide her narrative, or did her fictional creation serve as a precursor to reality? One thing is clear: her horror tale has transcended mere fiction, marking the onset of what we now refer to as “Frankensteinism.”

As Barham articulates, Shelley’s character Mary poses a profound existential inquiry to all of us, including herself, asking, “How far is too far?”

Shelley’s life was steeped in personal turmoil, characterized by a forbidden romance, loss, and societal rejection during her writing of Frankenstein. The creature she conceived reflects her own experiences with alienation and social injustice, while simultaneously addressing themes of progress and evolution. Barham observes:

> “Frankenstein illustrates that ambition and progress can easily morph into hubris. When things go awry, we can clearly differentiate between reasonable aspirations and overreaching human ambition. Yet, it is not merely a personal narrative; it transcends into a broader commentary on technology and myth, offering timeless warnings.”

Shelley’s imaginative reconstruction reveals a young woman, despite her age, possessing profound insights into life and death. The inquiry of “How far is too far?” resonates universally, demanding an answer from humanity as a collective.

This question emerged for me while reading The Lost Art of Dying: Reviving Forgotten Wisdom by esteemed physician L.S. Dugdale. It prompted contemplation: Is there a delicate balance between preserving life and overstepping moral boundaries?

Witnessing my grandmother’s gradual decline forced me into a moral quandary. Her doctor sought our family’s input on whether to cease aggressive treatment or continue. Our decisions relied on medical expertise, observations, and hope for a favorable outcome. Unfortunately, her prognosis was grim, with less than a 10% chance of survival.

In her comatose state, we spoke on her behalf, and the medical team adhered to our wishes. Long after her burial, we grappled with doubts about whether we made the correct choice. The only solace was knowing we aimed to minimize her suffering, as assured by the doctors—though the truth of that statement remains elusive.

Our trust lay in the hands of medical professionals clad in their uniforms, yet even experts are not immune to uncertainty. Dugdale’s insights revealed that physicians often wrestle with regrets about their decisions and the mistakes they have made, which only deepened my own feelings of guilt. I had overlooked a fundamental reality: doctors are human and, like all of us, fallible.

In Do Physicians Play God?, physician Gian-Paul Vidal reflects candidly:

> “Do we assume the role of God when we strive to stave off death? We can perform surgeries, administer medications, and utilize machines to prolong life, but ultimately, the patient may still succumb. Some lives are not destined to reach a certain age. Perhaps it is divine will, yet we often struggle against nature, oblivious to the suffering we may impose by extending life.”

This poignant acknowledgment resonated with me, even if it came two decades after my grandmother’s passing. Often, clarity emerges only after a period of reflection. In that cancer ward, we were too overwhelmed by grief to think clearly, our emotions too numbed to engage in meaningful discussions.

Our faith in a higher power suggests that death is not something to be feared or fought against. It is a misconception that the Hippocratic Oath mandates a vow to cause no harm; rather, it emphasizes a commitment to the art of medicine and the holistic treatment of individuals. It reminds us to proceed cautiously in life-and-death matters, ensuring that we do not overreach our bounds.

> “We treat the patient, not merely the illness, acknowledging the inevitability of death.” — Gian-Paul Vidal, Do Physicians Play God?

Throughout my life, I have grappled with the ethical dimensions of the medical profession. My grandfather, a radiologist, often found himself torn between his medical duties and personal convictions as he witnessed my grandmother’s decline. He instilled in me a preference for science over alternative therapies, albeit with a critical eye towards religious beliefs.

In his later years, he developed a keen interest in theology, examining various religions through a philosophical lens. He acknowledged a higher power but prioritized empirical evidence over dogma.

Conversely, I embrace a belief in a higher presence, which I do not confine to traditional definitions of God. To me, divinity is omnipresent, existing beyond specific rituals or locations. Yet, I recognize that physicians embody a semblance of that higher power during our most vulnerable moments, serving as our last hope for recovery.

Yet, as Barham questions, “How far is too far?” Was Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein a mere character, or did he serve as a harbinger of ethical dilemmas in medicine? Did she observe injustices in healthcare and attempt to illuminate them through her narrative?

Since the 1960s, discussions around the ethical implications of “playing God” have emerged within the medical and scientific communities, initially focusing on euthanasia and later evolving to encompass reproductive technologies and genetic manipulation. The term often carries negative connotations, suggesting that such actions transcend the rightful domain of scientists.

But Shelley is not alone; many female authors have explored the ethical boundaries of medicine and the consequences of “playing God.” For example, The Mad Women’s Ball by Victoria Mas, translated by Frank Wynne, examines the mistreatment of women labeled as “mad” in an asylum setting.

In The Classism of Madness, I captured the suffering of women at Pitié-Salpêtrière, a notorious institution for those who defied societal norms in the 1880s.

> “Eugénie Cléry stands before a physician at Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris and is asked what ails her. She replies, ‘I see the dead.’ The doctor, unimpressed, dismisses her experience.”

Women like Eugénie Cléry epitomize the ways in which the medical establishment has wielded power over female patients, often leading to their suffering or demise under the guise of treatment.

Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace explores similar themes, detailing the historical injustices faced by marginalized women in Canada during the same period.

Atwood’s protagonist, Grace Marks, embodies complexity, with her guilt or innocence remaining ambiguous. Dr. Simon Jordan, a fictional psychiatrist, becomes engrossed in uncovering the truth behind her involvement in a double murder.

While the novel delves into memory, identity, and societal dynamics, it also critiques how women, especially those deemed “mad,” are perceived and treated by the medical community.

As mortality looms, existential fears emerge. Medical practitioners have evolved in their understanding of healing, yet they occasionally acknowledge their fallibility.

> “I have witnessed profound suffering in the ICU. Imagine a patient reliant on machines to breathe, tubes extending from their body, and families in anguish. I have observed the tears of loved ones and the emotional toll on healthcare workers. I have felt my own grief.”

It dawned on me that these outcomes stemmed from our actions.

I have seen surgeons make questionable decisions, opting for invasive procedures when simpler options would suffice. I understand the pressures physicians face to explore every avenue, fueled by their need to succeed. The dangerous allure of hope is palpable.

Despite the grim realities reflected in literary narratives, I maintain faith that most medical professionals aspire to heal.

I contend that doctors “play God” in two distinct ways: by striving to prolong life at all costs or by granting patients the autonomy to choose a dignified end, surrounded by love.

While some denounce physicians who support assisted suicide, I believe that a doctor who ignores a patient’s suffering or imposes unnecessary treatments fails to grasp the true essence of healing.

> “Do we play God? I believe we do, often for misguided reasons.”

Ultimately, individual beliefs are secondary to the obligations outlined in the Oath, which compels practitioners to act in the best interest of their patients while avoiding the pitfalls of overtreatment and neglect. My duty as a physician is to alleviate suffering within the bounds of legality. When my time comes, I hope my intentions will be recognized as acts of love.

Science and morality exist in tandem, with ambition shaping the delicate balance between the two. Physicians hold the potential to be virtuous agents of change, but their role has its limits.

Victor Frankenstein dared to transgress boundaries. Was it brilliance or folly? Is it human endeavor to solve problems, or does it create new ones? Engaging with the natural world inevitably leads to a form of “playing God.”

We must instead embrace our humanity, making choices that resonate across generations and touch upon the core of life and death.

Our universe thrives on emergent probabilities, influenced by both chance and established laws. Thus, being human entails working in harmony with “God” to explore the possibilities that lie ahead. However, we must also acknowledge our limitations as creatures of habit, recognizing that we cannot “play God” as if we are independent of the system.