Countup

Countdown:

          I seem to be counting up these days instead of down, probably gaining twenty minutes since I last reported. My new normal is still pretty abnormal but I at least have a better attitude about my life. I still have hopes of being able to see theater movies or putting at one of our practice facilities. Or even of braving the hoards at CostCo for a few bargains (I love to shop.) So much depends on my fatigue levels. I want to raise my energy enough to allow me to walk a hundred steps instead of fifty before I need to sit down. And where do I sit down after those hundred steps? I need a walker with an attached seat. Okay, so get a walker with a seat, Dummy.

What else has brightened my outlook? For nearly a year I’ve been irregular, forcing me to use too many laxatives which with frequent use are too hard on the organs. But I learned the hard way this last year that irregularity can be not only painful and frightening, but also depressing. I Googled irregularity and found that several of my medications cause constipation: pain narcotics (I’ve taken 150 mg. of Tramadol every day for a year), Nifedipine (one of my heart meds), iron pills (for my low red cell count), and Levothyroxine (which I take for hypothyroidism, but it’s the condition, not the remedy, that causes constipation). I quit taking the Tramadol and iron, and wonder of wonders, I’ve found my youthful regularity. And my days are quite a bit brighter (as well as lighter).

Countdown complete. My clock now shows 11:22 p.m. What could cause it to begin moving toward midnight? I think it has to do with what I consider an unacceptable quality of life. What is or isn’t acceptable varies with every person and from one age to another. For some, their religion might tell them that they must live as long as possible, no matter what their circumstances. Life is precious, they say, and we must keep life’s candle burning even if the flame is sputtering. These are the followers of Dylan Thomas who suggests that we “rage against the coming of the night.” Although I admire Thomas’ poetry, I don’t plan to hold on to life when life is no longer worth living. When my quality of life is no longer acceptable, I will find a way to end it. What is unacceptable to me? When I can no longer read or write or listen to great music, when the Cardinals, Diamondbacks, or the PGA no longer interest me, when I no longer do anything but sit or lie and stare at a wall or ceiling, when I require full-time assistance for eating, for use of restroom, for dressing and undressing, that will be the time for bailing out. I have a living will stating that no artificial means of keeping me alive are acceptable—no intravenous feeding, no breathing machine, and no life support of any kind. Comfort care drugs? Yes. By all means, yes. If I have a heart attack, do I want to be resuscitated? You bet. But if it leads to that life support mentioned previously, no, a resounding no. What happens if my life becomes unacceptable but I’m too incapacitated to do anything about it? If I can’t find the stored opioid pills on my own and there’s no one around to find them for me, I’ll just have to will myself to sleep. I think there are plenty of examples of old folks doing just that. I’m a strong-willed person and I’m sure I could manage it.

Maybe most of the states in the next ten years will come to their senses and pass right-to-die legislation to help people like me find their easy out. If not, then my wife or one of my children will have to haul me to California or Colorado.