Anyone who'd read my blog for awhile knows that when events make me think about death, I get maudlin and overwrought. I've rejected the faith in which I was raised for reasons that started out political and became more philosophical (once I started questioning, I ended up questioning it all, and none of it made sense any more), but I sure do miss that crutch when it comes to dealing with dying.
On the way home tonight, the internal jukebox played BS&T. I can swear there ain't no heaven but I pray there ain't no hell. I kinda go the other way...I don't think there is Hell. I don't think there is a need for Hell if there's a benevolent Someone. Plus, as torture goes, life here should be generally sufficient. But I'm really not sold on the idea of heaven. It just smacks of wishful thinking.
It's wishful thinking for me, because I want it all back...every friend, every relative, every goldfish. And if we can't sit around together on clouds for eternity, the next best thing would be to be constantly recycled, and still have the chance to bump into the old beloved souls. Maybe next time I'll be the goldfish, but that's cool, as long as we still have that bond...
But as the song says, only my dying will tell.
I can't remember who the person was, but as some point when I was a kid I heard about someone with ALS who was described to me as trapped in an unresponsive body. Ultimately, that is my greatest fear, worse than dying...to be completely enclosed in my own body and unable to communicate with others. Even degenerating, knowing that I was losing it slowly, would be horrible, but to hit bottom and no longer be able to express my thoughts...that, to me, is the worst torture imaginable, my Room 101.
So that's what I'm telling my health care proxy. If I'm not expressing anything, pull the plug, the tube, whatever. Watch my eyes for Morses code for a bit, give the experimental electroshock a few weeks to work, but when I'm vacant, let me go. If I am still aware at that point and I can't find a way to make you know it, I'm ready to take my chances on the other side. It won't be worse.
Just let me go naturally.
And I do want to be cremated, for the record. And I'd like my cremains (and this is so totally out of line for a serious post, but the word "cremains" makes me think of Craisins, which is sick as hell but now I'm giggling. So mention that at the funeral) mixed in with some dirt where something is growing...a tree or some daffodil bulbs. If nothing else, let the elements that were me return to the earth, and don't let embalming fluid and a steel box slow that down.
And speaking of the funeral: lots of booze and lots of music. My friend Ben has a mix tape I made in college that would probably be good. I think it even has Blood Sweat & Tears.
Posted by Nic at March 31, 2005 05:45 PM