I'm borrowing a great quote from a friend:
"Life is a very complicated drinking game"
And I've been thinking my
foopin' head off regarding an exit strategy.
Before you get to worried, let me explain.
I am very fortunate to do some work on the side with the very very elderly. Fortunate in the sense that I have shared some great moments with several people which I should blog out sometime later. But especially fortunate that these visits have led me to the inescapable conclusion that I do not want to live "too long".
Wally is a prime example.
Wally is well into his 80's. We've been buddies for maybe five years. I met him doing my monthly "Science with Mike" show at an assisted living center. And, when his health failed further and bought him a ticket out of the world of assisted living and into various nursing homes, I followed him around and visit him like once or twice a month. He's a former engineer. Mentally, sharp as a tack. Physically, failing and now completely bed ridden. Been that way for weeks.
I saw him
Saturday. Now, when I arrive, he kisses my hand. You would think this would make a guy feel weird. Well, it does. The first time anyway.
When I walk in, I notice he was laying with his torso elevated and leaned over to one side. His head is resting on the side rail of the bed. He can barely draw a breath and so I can barely hear him speak. I consider myself to have a good ear. But, I need him to repeat things three or four times now. Then we just sort share silence together. This is what I got out of him Saturday in 30 minutes:
"It's wonderful to see you"
"What's it like outside?"
"What day is it"
"I can't lay like this"
"The bed is too small"
"I love you"
His bed is too small and his feet were pressed up against the footrest not allowing his legs to straighten out. So, I ineptly tried to prop him up more and while I do, I notice he now has the adult diaper and a very putrid smell.
The nurse walked by and noticed my inept attempts and helped me lift him up more using the sheet under him. I asked Wally if that was better and he sort of pivoted his hand from side to side to say "not really". "He's too tall", the nurse rationalized. I asked if they had different beds and she told me it was a
Hospice bed and they only came in that size.
I'm rambling. I guess I should start making a couple of points.
1) If it's supposed to be the vehicle you ride to death, how in the hell does Hospice not make a bed that it bigger? Maybe they do. My mom works for Hospice so she can answer that.
2) I really really really really really really really really don't want to live that long. I've seen too many people die this way.
How can I be sure I won't? Maybe I should give up cycling. Knowing my luck this ticker of mine will keep ticking and the
rest of me will go to hell, while I lay there...like Wally is.
You might think this is funny. But, when I was driving back from my visit with Wally, I thought up a plan:
1) Befriend a younger person who would not be opposed to helping escort me out of this world in
the case I am lying there like a sack of potatoes waiting for
The Grim Reaper. This person cannot be a close family member. It's too emotional, so those folks usually want you to hang around as long as possible, so they cannot be in on the plan.
2) Arrange some sort of deal where this person delivers some sleeping pills to my nursing home bed. If they want money for this task, I'll arrange for a bank account to be set up specifically for this. I'll give this person a bank card and when they deliver the goods, I'll give them a PIN number in my dying breath.
3) Die
4) Fly towards the light Mikey, Fly!
If you're opposed to this type of thing, I don't mean to offend you. Hey, it was just an inspired fantasy.
But on that note, I ain't going out in diapers either.
So...anybody think they'll wanna make some cash somewhere around the year 2058?
He has a one-color jump suit, plastic hair, sunglasses:
