I am not suicidal. But at 67, I think about dying a lot more than I did ten years ago. What I think about the most is how I'm going to cross that last threshhold. I've even checked out my "healthy life expectancy" using Mortality Tables relied on by insurance companies and the federal government. "Healthy life expectancy " is the number of years a person might expect to live free of serious illness or disability. For me, when your healthy life expectancy runs out, it's good to know what you're going to do next. You need to have a plan.
I'm not crazy. Just determined I'm not going to float around in a nether world somewhere below the surface of being the conscious, mobile and thinking person I am. I do not want to morph into a drooling, unmanageable caricature of myself in a diaper. Nor do I want to rot away, festooned with tubes and monitor lines running in and out of my body, as I lie in bed praying to die. The following story led me to seriously consider my "check out time."
Last July, Sir Edward Downes, 85, and his 74-year old wife Joan traveled from Britain to Zurich, Switzerland. Their fifty-four year marriage has been described as "an enduring love story". He was the principal conductor of the BBC Philharmonic for over fifty years. She was a former ballet dancer and choreographer who, in her later years, chose to become her husband's personal assistant.
Lady Downes was suffering from terminal cancer of the liver and pancreas. Sir Edward, although not ill, was nearly blind and deaf. In Zurich they entered a clinic where, after drinking a cocktail laced with barbituates, they laid down side by side and while holding hands, fell alseep. Minutes later they died peacefully.
What led to their mutual deaths wasn't so much the fact that Sir Edward wouldn't have been able to care for himself without Lady Downes, but that he didn't care to live without her. Friends said,"They were inseparable." And, "It was a real love match."
The assisted suicide of the Downeses intensified the heated debate about the morality of suicide and whether we have the right to end our lives as we choose, particularly that time when age, infirmity or illness carries us beyond meaningful life and leaves us in Death's waiting room.
Do we have the Right to Die, to decide while still mentally competent, that we are through with being held captive to sickness and pain? Shouldn't we be able when virtually blind and deaf, to declare that, for us, life is no longer worth living? Doesn't a time come when we are so diminished by age or illness that society loses dominion over us and we are free to do with ourselves as we please?Who, other than each of us, should have the right to decide when, where and how we shall die?
It is foolish and irresponsible to avoid thinking about life's last big event. Leaving end of life decisions to family or friends, those who always pray for our miraculous recovery, not only places a heavy burden on them, but it can ignite conflict and resentment among them. And, as you lie there helplessly, you may find yourself being driven down roads you'd rather not go.
For instance, in their desperation to prolong or save your life, your family could decide to place you in a promising but tortuous experimental drug program. Alternately, they could choose to have you undergo painful and highly expensive cutting-edge surgery which, while extremely risky, is worth the gamble to them if it holds out a chance of extending your life.
While such scenarios are extreme and unlikely, they're certainly not out of the realm of possibility. The most common situation has children faced with putting dear old Mom or Dad in a nice nursing home. There, families feel a parent will have the benefit of 24/7 medical attention.
Unfortunately, I've visited plentyof nursing homes. In my mind, none came even close to being nice. To be fair, it's more honest to say that I've never come across one I would choose to live in rather than die. To me they all smell alike--a malordous composition of urine, disinfectant, unattended bedside commodes and cooking fumes, all of it tinged with the sweet scent of gladiolas which, unfairly or not, I associate with funeral homes.
Scattered through the hallways are people slumped over in wheelchairs, most with their heads hanging down. It's impossible to tell if they're asleep or too weak to hold them up. The alert residents capable of standing, if unable to walk, shuffle-walk, wandering aimlessly hoping to find a friend or the affection of a warm, "Hi, how are you today?" Smile and a few smile back. Often you see eyes brimming with sadness and loneliness. Some have no reaction, but stare vacantly through you.
Nursing assistants (CNA's) are grossly underpaid and typically assigned more patients than they can possibly attend to, let alone stop to converse or hold a hand and listen. Some aids are surprisingly energetic, vibrant and openly caring towards their charges. They are the few, the only "regulars" who carry sunshine into the lives of the residents on a daily basis.
Many CNA's are sullen, obviously resentful of being stuck in a low-paying, tough, dead end job that demands heavy lifting, mopping up urine and washing feces off the floor and patients. They know the job they have is likely the best paying one they'll ever have. Like the residents, they are trapped in a hell hole and hate it.
As you walk the hallways you hear television noises coming from the rooms, people calling out for someone or something, frequently making no sense at all or worse, wrestling with pain. Almost always the air carries the sounds of people crying, moaning or laughing out loud to themselves.
There are nursing homes you might call "more livable". At least they try with bright colored curtains, plush carpeting, pleasant pictures on the walls, big windows to let daylight stream in, comfortable nooks for visiting and attractive dining rooms. The food looks better than it does in the typical nursing home, but that doesn't mean it's good.
Study these "nice" homes and you'll see that the homey touches are mere window dressing. The ambience is intended to camouflage the smells, the sights of demented residents and the odd noises of patients and blaring televisions back in their rooms. The nicer homes mute the horror of life in any instituional setting, but as I see it, they're not much of a step up from the less expensive facilities.
None of them, no matter the price tag, is a place where anyone full of life would choose to exist. These so-called homes are the last stop before the funeral parlor. I will never, ever allow myself to be placed in any of them.
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