My do-not-resuscitate form is pretty, which surprises me. It will hang on the front of the kitchen door, ready to show to any lifesavers who come thinking they can save me. They can’t. As of today, I get to die the way I wish to die, with Maria’s approval and understanding.
That’s not going to be soon. But I feel much more at ease about it.
Maria and I went to my doctor this morning to sign off on a once-in-a-lifetime (I hope) experience, signing the form that gives me control over how I wish to die. I won’t allow anyone to try to wake me up or keep me alive.
They call it a do-not-resuscitate form, and it means that when I die, I die.
I don’t want to be brought back to life in any way. It’s hanging on the kitchen wall, signed by my doctor. It must be obeyed and hangs right on the refrigerator to be seen.
When my doctor looked me in the eye and gave me all the options, I interrupted and said, “It’s really simple, I said. When I’m dead, I’m dead. Period.”
Men my age do not recover easily from efforts to bring them back to life or revive them, or take any other extreme steps to keep them doing beyond nature. My doctor said I was in good shape for someone my age, and that I had good years ahead of me. I agree. I love life, but I don’t need to live forever.
My years of hospice volunteering taught me that the most beautiful deaths I have ever seen were in families who had accepted death, not who thought it could never happen to someone they loved.
I had two reasons for this decision. Every time I hesitate, I read Atul Gawande’s great book Being Mortal, about the awful suffering of the elderly who are kept alive for years in great pain and discomfort before their families or doctors accept reality and let them go.
I wouldn’t let my dogs die that way, let alone myself. My parents had no such option. They paid for it.
I did this for me, but also for Maria; I swore to myself some years ago that I would not be one of those men who refuse to talk about their death and die suddenly and without closure or reparation and leave their wives with an enormous mess to sort through by themselves.
I know two women who were married to men who never talked about their mortality, and when they died – men most often die before their wives – they had a rough time of it on top of grieving, which is bad enough.
I know a greater number of women who have spent years caring for husbands are steadily declining and helpless. I don’t want to be one of those men. My wish for Maria is that she will have just as happy a life. She should have the chance.
Maria is an astonishingly capable, bright, and strong person. She can handle her life without me. I want her to be free to live a good, meaningful life of her own. I understand the pain of grieving. I also understand the joy of living.
I’ve done most of the preparation I needed: no driving outside of my town, no sitting in the hot sun, no foods I used to love, no walking without a brace, etc. I only buy things I need; I pay no attention to the many things for sale that a man my age has no need for now, or forever.
Maria can still call the first responders, but no one can tell her what to do with me or how I must die. We are both in agreement.
I feel liberated. Love isn’t just about me; it’s about loving others more than I love myself.
We are now free to live our lives in love and freedom; neither of us will have to handle any surprises.
