Wills

It was Tuesday, shortly after we had hastily agreed to have surgery the following morning. We were dazed, shuffling along the pre-op test conveyor belt--x-ray to blood test to other samplings I do not recall. I had just successfully peed into a small cup(after downing a mediocre cup of hospital coffee just to make that happen) and placed my urine in a funny little panel in the bathroom wall.
"I just don't want to be in a position where I am unable to do what I need to do to help you," Trudi said as we headed towards the next stage, not clear at all where that was.
Trudi has only asked me for this one favor through all of this. She wants fill out whatever legal document that would give her the power to make any medical calls necessary if I become incapable of doing so myself--a small, but definite possibility.
"Why?" I said. I was angry. "I can't think about this now," I said, as I walked off in the direction of the elevator, leaving her a few paces behind. It was the first time I'd snapped at her in all of this. I heard her take a short tight breath, so I stopped to face her. She looked at me with that face she makes--it's red and sad and a little contorted. It means I've hurt her, but she understands I didn't mean it to hurt her. She's trying to be rational, to not take it personally, to not react, to know there are bigger things going on than her feelings. That's why her face gets like that. That's hard for anyone, and I feel bad for putting her through all this. She nods, and squeezes out a pained smile. We walk off toward the elevator together.

Still, I felt bothered by the idea. I had much more pressing things to think about. The question of whether to "pull a plug" or not meant nothing. Coma, sleep, and death were the same. I would not be conscious. If there was some kind of afterlife, or next life, or portal to another existence (which is how I prefer to think of it, if I'm trying to be positive) then that would be the first thing I would experience. For me, it would be a near timeless transition to either a miraculous recovery or to the next life, or, equally likely, to nothing at all.

I realize now in this writing that this was a selfish line of thinking. Yes, to me it does not matter. (Barring the miraculous recovery part). But to others it would matter. How would my loved ones live out their days with their son, boyfriend, sibling, or friend, breathing away mindlessly in some sanitary and lonely room? How would that feel to them, to always have me hanging there, not dead, not alive? Why would I rob them of the relief of my death? For what? A tiny chance that there might be some miracle?
I have been known to enjoy myself some gambling from time to time, (money comes and goes fast at a Vegas craps table) and I have always been good at calculating odds. You always have to maximize the risks and rewards if you want to have a chance to win anything. So I wouldn't wager everyone else's happiness for a fraction of a shot at a miracle. While the concept of some kind of afterlife may be a gamble as well, I'd take those odds, and feel at ease with the knowledge that the people I loved could have some peace. Which is all that really matters.

The idea of signing something has been brewing for the last day or so. It's now clear that Trudi was right--in that I should fill something out that states my intentions over life support and finances and things like that. I needed to make that decision, or else it would be made for me. I would lose more control--which was what was happening at each turn. I did not want to lose any more.

About that decision:

I love my parents deeply, and do not doubt their love for me for even a second. But I respect no one's rationality more than Trudi's. We've been making nothing but difficult practical decisions together for the last year--mostly involving our unfinished house. I know she would be careful and unemotional in making any decision for me--which is exactly what I would want. I know she would have a strong, generous and loving support group to make any tough decisions as well.

So this morning, I told Trudi to go ahead and set-up a meeting with the lawyer today.

I was lying in bed, eating some McDonalds breakfast I had asked Trudi to get me earlier, while I wrote some e-mails to people I hadn't spoken to in years. Trudi handed me the phone. "The lawyer needs to talk to you," she said, and then left the room to give me privacy. I thought of putting my food down, but I had a right to be rude and eat on the phone--these were tough times.

So there I was, chomping away at an egg and cheese biscuit and a hash brown, and asking some terrible questions. I've had to ask a lot of terrible questions in the last few days. But these felt worse:

Q:So, say I'm in a coma--what document dictates when the plug is pulled?
A: That would be the living will, sir.

Q:What if something happens during surgery? Like say, there's a complication, and they need to ask what to do?
A: Well, if they're in surgery, the doctors will decide. (Okay, that was a stupid question.)

What about money? What is a power of attorney? Does that mean that person get all my money? How do I go about deciding financial maters?

What if I don't die--or if I'm not in a coma. Let's just say I'm alive, but incapable of making decisions for myself. Like brain damaged. What happens then?

Yes, I did say all these things, and quite calmly. I guess this is all starting to become normal.