image

At one time I wrote an entire post about how I wanted to be kept alive “no matter what”. I imagined that I would be there in a nursing home, but I would have children and grandchildren coming to visit.

I even wrote about how I might not be able to talk but I might enjoy hearing the laughter of little ones playing with their Matchbox cars up and down my frozen limbs.

I had a promise of love for life… holding my hand until the end, and was not afraid of tubes and machines.

Someday they might find a cure I thought, or I would just drift off asleep….

I was a fool.

I’m a widow now with no grave to set flowers on, just memories of who my beloved used to be before we were attacked. No, not like Memere, who had Pepere go visit everyday. Just my hands alone twisting in the widow’s black as his shell roams the woods.

I’ve outlived most of my relatives that would have come to visit me. The rest are scattered across the country nowhere near enough to see me, even if they could afford to. A good number haven’t called in years, so I doubt they would want to.

Most of the good friends I had? Gone on to heaven already, and a lot of the ones I have left can’t drive anymore so we hardly ever see each other.

The family members, adopted all, that are caregivers for me are either blind and elderly or live an hour away. The Johnson’s and The O’Rourke’s are made up wonderful people, but many of them are almost as poor or disabled as I am, the rest near collapse from caregiving while working and raising families…no not just me. More like me and a couple grandparents and a couple disabled kids plus a nephew who had no one left. Some members in each family have so many people at once, they are essentially running medical group homes for no salary 24/7. They do so much it amazes me, but I am always aware of how much it costs them. So, I try not to ask for much – even when that leaves me in a situation where I am changing my own depends and disposable chucks right there in my own hospital bed while sick, in my own room, all by myself.

And…. I am legion.

There are hundreds of us, right here, right now, in your county, in every state.

The state is now our “son” and just like in the story below, the state could care less if we lay in bed on sweat soaked sheets for days on end.

No, politicians debate and discuss over the pennies it would cost for us to actually have the hours of home care we qualify for, then brag about the budget surplus they gained off our misery, and case managers shrug and blame the worker shortage while washing their hands.

No one cares that 90 cans of ensure a month, this drug, or that procedure might make many of us better. That is a “terminated benefit” now. Like podiatrists doing diabetics toe nails, or being able to get special shoes. Too expensive for the state. It might reduce the budget surplus.

The state governor brags about a budget surplus built on taking away our reading glasses, limiting our live saving medications, and removing one of our two hearing aids. Oh, they will pay to pull your rotted teeth, but not could get your dentures so that you can eat real food. Besides, it makes us much easier to identify like having a yellow star sewed on our clothing. “Smile, We need your photo.”
We are cared for so tenderly by our “son” the state’s voters, aren’t we?

DNI? DNR? Oh, yes.

More. Now.

Not after we have the bedsores, the broken colonoscopy bags, the skeletal frames.

Irrevocable. Unshakable.

RTD.
Right To Die.

Death Plans.

One “son”, the American public, is pushing us in ghettos, lining up trains to nowhere. Let us escape before the voters open the gas chambers.

The other son is in denial, or on a power trip, pushing technology down our throat to stay even if we don’t want to.

Two sons. One son made up of the American public determined to let us waste away in our own filth, if not to push us directly into the deadly shower. The other son determined to keep us in suspended animation in a living hell.

Both are horrible, and both can only be placated with a strong DNI/DNR. One demands it, the other hates but needs to respect it.

I’ve told of the first son. Here is the other:
“Do Everything”

Next time you vote, think hard about what kind of “son” you are being to those of us left in the care of the state.

Next time you see “Mother”, think about being the kind of “son” that will honor and follow her wishes.

Next time you have your annual physical, don’t just make your plans for your life. Make your plans for your death, or someone else will.

Advertisements