Those of you who saw my last post will know that I’ve had an “interaction” with the medical profession recently. And, although I was never in any doubt that I was not suffering a heart attack, the experience has left me rather reflective.
The medics were trying to prolong my life. That is their raison d’etre: we expect nothing else from them. This is not intended to be a criticism of their actions but I ask myself “Is that really what I want?”
I think about the old blokes I shared a ward with. Of course, I was not seeing them at their best but it was not a good advert for growing old. Is that what I have to look forward to?
It is not realistic to expect my life to get better than it is now. Though I am not infirm, several of my previous attributes are seriously faded. Some things that I used to take delight in, such as basketball and motorcycling, are totally lost to me now. As more time passes, I will only lose more and gain none.
So why carry on? Am I just lingering, living for living’s sake? I am not suicidal. I don’t feel tempted to try to despatch myself. I’ve had a good life, on the whole. I’ve certainly had lots of fun. What is there left to do? More of the same or maybe, more accurately, more of mostly the same but with bits missing and less intensely. Will that be enough to make life worthwhile?
I suppose everyone gets to think about dying at some point in their lives. Being dead holds no fear for me but the thought of dying scares me, particularly if it’s long, drawn out and painful. Some of you will remember my post about Yvette, my neighbour, who recently died under anaesthetic, during an operation. I think a part of me envies her.
So, if I flake out, how do I want the medics to respond? I doubt it’s an option open to me but I wonder if I wouldn’t prefer they just let me go?
