As America prepares to celebrate her 250th birthday, it seems important to revisit our founding documents. The preamble to our Declaration of Independence states clearly that we have the unassailable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We are all, as humans—as Americans—promised the right to live freely and try our best to find and live out what makes us happy.

Sadly, that first and most fundamental right—life—is under attack.

On December 12, 2025, Illinois Governor JB Pritzker signed Senate Bill 1950 into law, making Illinois the 13th state to legalize physician-assisted suicide and the first in the Midwest. Critics, myself included, condemn the practice as inhumane and dangerous—particularly for the elderly, disabled, and vulnerable.

The day before the signing, I sat in a meeting with other opponents of the legislation and respectfully implored the governor’s staff to encourage him to delay. It felt like a “going through the motions” event designed to hush up people with disabilities and others who understand how dangerous this type of legislation truly is.

SB 1950 is the first step in creating a culture that devalues the most fundamental right we have as human beings: life. It also erodes one of the most important relationships we have outside of our faith and family—our trust in our medical professionals.

I’m a proud member of Gen X, and I’m among the first generation of people born with spina bifida to survive in large numbers past childhood and well into adulthood. Living with a disability is not for the faint of heart—but I adore my life on wheels. I’ve enjoyed nearly all the normal human experiences: getting an education, falling in love, making my mark in the professional world. I’ve also experienced the hard things, like the death of parents and beloved friends.

In January 2021, I faced my greatest challenge yet: aggressive breast cancer.

Anyone who has been through cancer treatment knows it ravages you completely, demanding everything you have to give. Coupling it with a disability makes it even more strenuous.

My treatment was exceptional—with one caveat. Each time I was triaged before a chemo session, I was peppered with questions gently leading me toward “the discussion”: the availability of physician-assisted suicide if I had less than six months to live or felt my suffering was untenable. After the third such conversation, I asked to see the clinic administrators and made it politely but forcefully clear that I was not to be asked these questions again.

Six months into treatment, everything cancer patients fear happened at once. I had a reaction to the chemo, a UTI that went septic, and C. diff from the antibiotics—all while neutropenic and unable to fight back.

On a Thursday afternoon, my medical team finally answered my persistent questions honestly: if I lived through the weekend, it would be considered a miracle. As they left the room, I snuggled with my loyal service dog and made the necessary phone calls.

That evening, my husband and I met with our priest to make plans. It was surreal—planning my own funeral, navigating the reality that my life on earth might soon transition to life in heaven. After our priest left, my husband took my service dog home so she could rest. I was alone, more vulnerable than I had ever been.

As I drifted off to sleep, I sensed someone beside my bed. A nurse I didn’t recognize was reading my vitals and glancing at my chart. Then she began to speak—fiddling with something in her pocket.

She asked if I understood I would likely die over the weekend. I confirmed my prognosis was terminal. Then, unsolicited, she told me about an organization she volunteered with—one committed to helping terminal patients “die with dignity.” Compassion and Choices.

I was suddenly wide awake, terrified she might have something in her pocket that could end things right there. I raised my voice until, within 30 seconds, my room was filled with medical personnel.

The law is supposed to require that patients initiate these discussions—medical personnel are to do nothing to lead the conversation. That was completely ignored in my case.

The law also stipulates that a patient must have a clear diagnosis with no conceivable chance of surviving six more months. My situation was fluid. It could turn suddenly from terminal to recovery.

And it did. I’m here five years later—three years with no evidence of disease.

But the truth remains: in my weakened condition that night, pressure was applied, however subtly, to choose death so I wouldn’t suffer or become a burden. I strongly believe my disability factored into the offer of lethal drugs. I faced, in real time, the fear that disability patients carry: that our lives are not valued and therefore expendable.

I was fortunate. I had the strength to resist and people to advocate for me. But what happens to patients who aren’t as strong in their self-advocacy? Who have no one to support them? Who, in a moment of vulnerability, lack the capacity to decide?

They may end their lives prematurely—lives that still had something to offer the world.

With advances in hospice and palliative care, pain does not have to be unbearable. Every life has value. To cut one short at the hand of a person sworn to do no harm is cruel and unnecessary.

We deserve better.

Melissa Ortiz is a disability policy expert and cancer survivor. She previously served as Senior Advisor to the National Center for Public Policy Research’s Able Americans Project and as a Commissioner on President Donald J. Trump’s Administration for Community Living. She is the first female board member of The Conservative Caucus and resides in Washington, D.C., with her husband Tony and her service dog, Annie Oakley.