The Old Coot has an exit strategy.
By Merlin Lessler
There is a lot of pressure on us old guys, to make some end
of life decisions. “End of life decisions?” we respond, “I’m not planning on an
end of life. It’s too soon!” You see, in our heads, we’re still seventeen, in
spite of the evidence in our mirrors, in spite of our inability to hop off a
curb without wincing.
So, when our doctor sits us down, after telling us the thing
we came to see him about is just something we have to get used to, something to
expect at our age, and starts an “end of life decisions” conversation, we get
irked (to say it politely). Our idea of
end of life decisions is a lot different from what the medical community
has in mind. We’re focused on how many Clydesdale horses will pull our funeral
carriage. Whether there will be a 21 or 121 gun salute. What kind of jet planes
will fly by in formation? Whether the baseball stadium will be big enough for a
public viewing. Certainly not the decisions being forced on us by a well meaning,
but presumptuous medical establishment, insurance companies and Medicare
bureaucrats. All focused on the bottom line.
So, we’re pestered into making choices. “So you won’t be
sorry later,” they lament. “If you are brain dead do you want to be kept alive
on life support?” Brain dead. I’ve been brain dead for years; it’s not so bad.
I’ll stick with it. Next question? “If you stop breathing, do you want to be
resuscitated?” Ok that’s probably a valid one. But, then it gets a little
strange. “If you stub your toe? Get a bad haircut? Lose your car keys? Do you
really want to go on living? Wouldn’t you like us to put you out of your
misery?
At least that’s how I hear it. My response to the doctor is
always the same. Forget about the standard protocols. Forget about the
insurance company policies, the Medicare rules. Just fall back on the
Hippocratic oath. Which, in old coot terms boils down to, “Do me no harm!”
I finally did give in and discuss end of life decisions with
my doctor. When it’s a cold and snowy winter evening and I sneak out of the
house or the nursing home and feebly limp down the sidewalk and stumble over
onto a snow bank so that I’m lying on my back with a fantastic view of a
starlit sky, “LEAVE ME ALONE!” I’ll doze off with a smile on my face and the
cold night will do its job. A pleasant exit. The Eskimos figured it out a
thousand years ago. Slip the old coot onto a pile of furs on an ice floe and
let him drift off into the night. A kindness for a life well lived.
“All nice and good,” my doctor responded. “But, what we had
in mind was more like you stumbling out to the curb on garbage night with just
enough energy to climb into a 30 gallon leaf bag and reach up and pull the
drawstrings before you collapse inside. He’s ready to fill out the death
certificate; he just needs to select the cause: bad haircut, stubbed toe or one
of the other terminal conditions on the list he got from Medicare.
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