I will probably die alone
I am dying.
I don't say this like, "Everyone is dying from the moment they are born", but as in, "The doctors are surprised I made it this far". Probably only my fasting and ketogenic diet is keeping me alive right now.
And I don't say it for pity, please believe me. I firmly hold that quality of life is much more important than numbers of days. I am one of the few people who can say that with some authority, since most people don't get the time to fully accept their death. Since the day I became sure I was going to die within a few months, I have had five years of, among other things, the most beautiful and friendly women, the best of food and drink (within my diet), a full degree from a college, the best friends of my life, and pissing off the worst enemies I have ever had. So envy me instead of pity me.
But I will probably die alone. By choice.
I have never been good at letting others help me. Some childhood trauma I'm sure, but by now it's a dependable feature of my personality. No, I don't need your help moving, I don't need a ride to the airport and I will paint the kitchen myself, if you don't mind. Equal parts of arrogance and propriety prevents me from accepting care from others. I can do it better and I certainly don't want you to think I am imposing on you.
Propriety goes even further when it comes to personal care. Even when I go to the doctors I have to apologize for them having to listen to my heart. I had an orthopedic issue that required me to go to the podiatrist. I nearly hurt myself trying to get out of the chair to prevent the nurse from taking off my shoe. I can't let someone do that. I would be ashamed of making them serve me like that.
So imagine my horror at the idea, soon to be reality, that someone might have to help me dress and clean myself. I mean like bathroom and bedtime dressing and cleaning. That's just not ever going to happen, not if I can prevent it.
But, in our culture, one of the final ways to prevent it is not legally available to me. Even if I move to a state that has "Death with Dignity" laws, I still require a doctor to intimately service me. He will have to handle me and clean up after me. I have to find a way around that somehow.
I advocate, for some time now, "Black pill" rights. First brought to my attention 40 years ago by Robert Heinlein, they just make sense. No person, in any condition, should be denied the right to end their life as they see fit. You don't think a depressed person should be allowed? How depressing is that! And which person about to die is not depressed? I know the difference between clinical depression and just sad about dying, but I won't be the one to judge that for you.
But doctors don't like Black Pills. They want to mess with me. They claim the right to administer all drugs I might want. Worse, they claim the right to stop administering drugs if they think there is a risk I might suicide, even if the pain levels are still not treated.
Further, as we know, any level of drugs are likely to shorten my life. My current level may shorten it by 10 days, but does not come near reliving the pain. The level that might mostly relieve my pain might cut my life in half. In my particular condition, there is only one dosage which relieves all the pain, a dosage which will almost certainly end my life within hours. Sometime before I have completely lost the ability to take care of myself, I want that dosage.
If I don't do it myself, before there is too much disability, I could end up trapped in a bed, and all my fears will come true. People will clean me, and attend me in my most private moments. I almost can't write this, it's so upsetting to me. My family will have to gather around and watch me deteriorate, I can't allow that. And of course, at that time I lose my ability to determine my pain level, my drug level and my risk of dying.
So I will have to die alone. I will have to find a legal or quasi-legal source, find a quiet spot away from civilization, and relieve my pain completely. My family cannot know about it. My friends will wonder what happened to me. I even have to write this under the category of fiction or people will send the police around to capture me and hold me in the State Hospital until I convince them I have been "cured".
Some spring time, a few years after, someone will find my bones and be shocked. They will have to report it and their life will be affected. I wish I could prevent that embarrassing inconvenience for them. But I can't. This makes me sad.
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