Assisted suicide, in the context of a healthcare system that many suspect is rife with corruption, invites a conversation far more sinister than what we are usually willing to confront. On paper, it’s a compassionate option, a noble idea designed to give terminally ill patients the dignity of choice in their final moments. But in the real world—where systems of profit and manipulation prevail—it feels like something darker, something more akin to a weapon disguised as a shield. The stark reality, and the one we need to face with eyes wide open, is that the healthcare system is not built on altruism. The people who show up at hospitals, clinics, and long-term care facilities do so for a paycheck. This is the core truth, the bitter pill we tend to avoid, because it's uncomfortable to admit that the people responsible for life-and-death decisions are just as motivated by economic needs as the rest of us. They clock in and out. The double-edged sword here cuts deeper than most realize.

If we are to entertain the legality and ethics of assisted suicide in a system that is fundamentally corrupt, we must ask ourselves: how far will the blade cut, and who will it cut for? There’s no denying that assisted suicide offers a form of escape from unbearable suffering. The argument that autonomy should reign supreme over one's own death is compelling, and it appeals to our deeper sense of freedom, our desire to wrest control from the capriciousness of fate. But when autonomy is exercised in a system governed by profit motives, the choices become clouded. Is the decision to die truly the patient's, or is it influenced by unspoken pressures? Pressures that may not even come from the healthcare worker directly but from the very structure they operate within—one that prioritizes efficiency, cost-cutting, and survival of the institution above all.

The systemic pressures on healthcare providers are not imaginary. We know these systems are prone to corruption. From pharmaceutical kickbacks to insurance companies dictating treatment plans, there’s a constant push and pull between the care that should be given and the care that is most economically viable. And it’s here, in this gray zone, that assisted suicide becomes dangerous. The veil of compassion can easily be pulled over an ugly face of financial expediency. Let’s not kid ourselves into believing that all doctors are angels in white coats, tirelessly working to ease suffering out of the goodness of their hearts. They are humans navigating a system designed to make them efficient, profitable, and compliant. When that system allows for the option to end a patient’s life, can we really trust that the decision is free from economic bias?

The accountability for these decisions—who makes them, who enforces them, who questions them—evaporates into the ether. Sure, there are safeguards in place, like psychological evaluations and second opinions, but these are the same systems that allow pharmaceutical giants to flood the market with opioids, or insurance companies to deny lifesaving treatments in favor of cheaper alternatives. If the system is compromised at its core, what confidence can we have that it will act ethically when given the power to end life? You cannot hold a corrupt entity accountable to itself.

What becomes particularly alarming is the possibility of subtle coercion. Picture this: an elderly patient with limited resources, terminally ill, a strain on both the healthcare system and their family. The option of assisted suicide is presented as a way to relieve suffering. But beneath the surface, it’s also an escape valve for the healthcare system—a way to relieve financial burden, to clear a bed for the next patient, to reduce the strain on an overworked and underpaid staff. Even the family may, unintentionally, communicate their relief at the possibility of an end. None of this has to be explicitly stated. It's enough that the system exists, that the option is there, that the suggestion of death as a solution is embedded in the language of care.

These are the questions we need to be asking, not as a society that fancies itself compassionate but as one that understands how systems built on profit can and do corrupt. It's one thing to talk about assisted suicide in theory, to paint it in the soft pastels of empathy and dignity. It's another thing entirely to face the possibility that it could become a tool of systemic oppression—a way to hasten the deaths of those deemed economically inconvenient. In such a system, the terminally ill, the elderly, the poor, and the voiceless are at greater risk. They are, in essence, handed the knife and told to cut themselves free from the burden they’ve become. We tell ourselves this is freedom, but in reality, it’s an abdication of responsibility.

If we don’t have the integrity to overhaul the healthcare system, to root out corruption and dismantle the financial structures that incentivize death over care, then we shouldn’t be so eager to introduce laws that grant this kind of power. The healthcare system already struggles to keep itself clean from scandals, from manipulation, from greed. Adding the responsibility of life-ending decisions into that mix is a recipe for disaster, one that the most vulnerable will inevitably pay for. And then we’ll shrug and say, "It was their choice," when we know it wasn’t—at least, not entirely.

There is no simple answer here. The guardrails we put in place won’t be enough. The system itself is the problem, and within a broken system, even the most well-meaning policies can turn malignant. Until we can guarantee that healthcare decisions are made free of financial and systemic pressures, until we can place our trust in a system that genuinely prioritizes human life over profit, the concept of assisted suicide is not just dangerous—it’s perilous. We have to recognize that, in many ways, the system is already primed for abuse. And that’s not a future problem. That’s the stark reality we’re living in right now.