[COPY] Living Will

Thoughts after a recent hospitalization

Living Will

Living will fill you to bursting with marvels and miracles.

Living will rip out your stuffing, leaving you deflated and empty.

Living will become both simpler and more complicated as you get older.

Things will become more straightforward, but at the same time more nuanced.

I guess this is what’s called “wisdom.”

I recently had the dubious pleasure of updating our Wills and related legal documents pertaining to the end of life (which is much closer than it looks in the rearview mirror). Two documents dealt with how decisions will be made if we are not able to make them ourselves. The Living Will, and the Durable Health Care Power of Attorney specify particular desires. (Don’t artificially feed or hydrate me; yes, do harvest any usable organs for donation. If I am in an irreversible vegetative state, don’t leave me planted in a hospital bed like a dahlia bulb in the backyard—I won’t bloom again.)

A recent hospitalization brought this all to the surface for me.

I only briefly glimpsed the woman in the next hospital bed, separated by a thin curtain the color of a wilting daylily, but I could tell she was extremely old and virtually immobile. The whiteboard on the wall indicated that she also was suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease and dementia, and contained the instruction, “EAT!”

I know nothing about her other than this, and her first name. Fortunately, most of the nurses and other staff treated her with respect and kindness. But one very young nurses’ aide made me want to scream (which I might have done had I not been suffering with pneumonia). This well-intentioned but immature healthcare worker repeatedly addressed my roommate in irritating terms. “Hi there, cutie-pie!” “How are you today, girly girl?”

Girly girl is NOT how I want to be addressed. Ever. But especially in my oldest years when I can’t protest or throw a punch (physical or verbal). The woman in the bed next to me could have been a Nobel Laureate, or retired university professor, but she was spoken to as if she were a 13-year-old hanging out at the mall.

Hence, in the updating of our Durable Health Care Power of Attorney, I wish to add an addendum that says that if I become unable to make decisions about my care or communicate them, I want the whiteboard to indicate not only my name and the names of my care team, but also a copy of my Curriculum Vita, including degrees earned, publications, awards, and so forth. I want posted a list of the places I’ve lived, the friendships I’ve enjoyed, the music I’ve made, my favorite colors, and specific foods I detest. And I want photos posted from all the stages of my life, especially those that indicate my vitality and interests; my contributions to this world.

When I can no longer tell them, or even remember, who I am, I want there to be ways for them to learn my story and know who I’ve been and still am.

And if, in my diminished state, some immature health care worker calls me “girly-girl,” I hope one of my surviving family or friends will give them a sharp crack with my cane.

Friday Night At the ER
	for Pat

Ten o’clock on Friday night
at the busiest ER in the city.
I’ve been in Bay #1 since 10am,
waiting for a bed to be free.

This morning I woke up
with a fever over 103,
shaking  with convulsions.
Turns out it’s only pneumonia.

But here I am,
watching the cavalcade of scars,
of tattooed women
and young men
wheeled in on gurneys,
escorted by police.

One man is scratching
like his whole body is being
eaten alive by fleas.
“Wake up!” a nurse yells at him.
“Your mother wants to talk to you!”

I don’t know if he does.

Now I’m settled on the 8th floor,
sharing a room with an ancient woman
curled up like a fetus,
mumbling and giggling,
not moving.

Advanced dementia,
her whiteboard says.
Alzheimer’s.
All she eats is a tablespoon 
of ice cream—chocolate, 
laced with her meds.

No one visits her, 
comes to sit with her,
strokes her forehead,
or touches her hand.

She is the most alone person 
I’ve ever imagined.
And she seems to be dying,
on the other side of the curtain.

I may be discharged tomorrow.
Or perhaps on Monday.
Whichever, I will not die here.
Alone.

While a stranger in the next bed
behind a drawn curtain,
quietly raises a
hand of blessing,
and silently recites, “Hail, Mary,
full of grace....”

Brings palms together,
whispers:
May you be well.
May you be at ease.
May you be free 
from all suffering.

When life releases you,
may you rise like a wisp 
of fragrant incense,
all your days and loves
and sufferings dispel like
an explosion of dandelion seeds,
like the stars of the Pleiades.

And may the world sigh, “Ah....”

— Kris Haig