Eden Simone's Open Salon Blog

Will you die with dignity?

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 14:04:26 -0400

“How much longer until I can just die?” my father asks.

Ironically, he doesn’t know he’s actually dying—slogging through death’s stages, step, by excruciating step. No one tells him that his life is ending. He is suffering from late stage dementia and will not remember even if we did tell him—our words will evaporate, lost in the fog that clouds his mind.

It seems more cruel to give him the facts over and over so instead we watch in silence as his body begins to shut down, one organ at a time.

Death takes its time with him. It makes him wait, lurking in the distance, mocking.

My father can no longer walk. He has lost most of his vision. Bed sores have begun to erupt on his legs. His breath is labored. He eats nothing but two to three teaspoons of applesauce daily.

He will likely die of dehydration and that takes time.

The hospice doctors tell me he will be dead within weeks—possibly months, but they are reluctant to give me any real predictions. It’s impossible for me to make them understand that I’d rather know the truth than wonder.

I’m sure they know what is likely to happen but they will not share that with me. They stick to their script.

“Can’t we just go for a walk?” My father asks. “I’m tired of just lying around all the time.”

He is staring at the ceiling. I am next to him, on the floor. It’s 4 am. He still does not understand that he can’t walk anymore and he never sleeps. He does not understand that he will never leave this room.

Outside the seagulls are singing. The sky is a cruel blue, but he is now locked within a world he can no longer experience.

He tries to get up, but fails.

I want to end my father’s life.

I know with 100% certainly he’d want me to. I try to look for loopholes in the laws. There is nothing. We can only wait, hoping that death will grace us sooner rather than later.

After many hours of research I discover a solution that just might be viable: Palliative Sedation, a fancy name for basically sending someone who is near death anyway into a drug induced coma until they die. This is as controversial as it sounds but often practiced by hospice doctors when suffering warrants it and all other options for pain relief—both physical and psychological—have been exhausted.

In reality it is a form of assisted suicide—but it’s legal.

I beg my father’s doctors to do this for him but they refuse. Their subjective view of his level of suffering does not warrant such a gift.

Here’s what I think about assisted suicide: It’s a gift. It’s a vehicle to die on your own terms. It is a way to end unbearable and needless suffering.

It is a personal choice.

Why should someone else’s religious or political opinions affect our very fate?

Will I be forced to endure needless suffering because someone else’s God deems that ending my own life is immoral? Will I rack up ridiculous medical bills because it’s illegal for me to die on my own terms?

I hope not.

When my day comes and it is me that straddles the vast chasm between life and death I can only hope I'll be able to opt out on my own terms.

I hope Jack's still around when I come knocking.

*my father died six months ago--without the dignity he deserved. This is a present tense reflection on that time*

Nosedive at 30,000

Sun, 7 Mar 2010 16:03:24 -0500

A nosedive at 30,000 feet was the last thing I expected.

I always relish the alone time when I'm flying. I lose myself in magazines and movies and random converations with strangers. I enjoy the smell of peanuts, the safety demonstration, even the sound of the seat belt sign.

Cocooned within the vast expanse of sapphire sky, the prospect of hurtling violently downward doesn't enter my mind; I've never been afraid.

I have no idea that in a few short moments this will change--forever.

I lower my seat back and sip on a gin and tonic as we glide gently over the Pacific. The flight attendants walk the aisles with thin smiles. They are getting older, I think, more bitter. They look tired.

Coffee? Tea? They ask. Chicken or fish?

It's business as usual; they are serving lunch. The pilot must be expecting a smooth ride.

There is no turbulence before it happens, no announcement to take seats or fasten seat belts, just a sudden startling lurch and shake followed by a sharp fall.

The plane plunges downward, shaking violently.

The walls move in and out as if elastic and I am certain they will soon break off and shatter to pieces. This is no longer a jet, it is merely a tin can hurtling downward, carrying me to my certain, fiery doom.

My head spins, I sweat and clutch my seat. Drinks fly through the air. Oxygen masks fall. A baby screams. In an instant everyone on the plane is panic stricken. Even the flight attendants fight back tears as they try to maintain some semblance of composure; one is pinned behind the cart.

I am certain we will all be dead in a matter of moments.

I know immediately that this is not mere turbulence; it has to be mechanical. I await the certain calming reassuracnce of the pilot's announcement telling us everything is under control, not to worry.

It never comes.

I remain absolutely frozen with fear. Time melts. Flight attendants continue to topple over one another and I do nothing but sit motionless as my oxygen mask falls in front of me.

I am traveling alone, my first trip since my son was born. I think of him at home in his crib, six months old breathing in angel whispers.

I know I won't see him again.

There is no one to comfort me as I prepare for the worst. The woman next to me is crying and shaking. Her husband stares out the window in shock, his khaki pants covered with coffee.

Through all of this the faceless pilot remains utterly silent, making the situation appear all the more dire. I conclude that if he is not reassuring his passengers he must be a very busy man--busy keeping this tin can from crashing into the dark blue sea below us.

My thoughts are racing: why isn't he saying everything is fine? All we need to do is climb a bit higher to find a smoother ride, right? Is there a problem with one of the engines?

Why am I so numb?

We continue hurtling downward.

My palms sweat. My heart races. I don't move or speak or breathe for what seems like an eternity.

And then, just as it began, it stops.

The plane levels. Passengers sit up, some holding hands. They wipe away tears and try to regain composure.

Still, I can't catch my breath.

A flight attendant comes by, straightens her skirt, and asks if I am okay.

"What just happened?" I ask her.

"We almost crashed," she says, flatly, not making eye contact. "You would've been unconscious though. You wouldn't have felt a thing."

I think: is this supposed to comfort me?

She walks away, smiling, picking up coffee cups and giving passengers reassuring pats on the back.

I can't move. I am still clutching the armrest.

We have two hours more to go before our scheduled arrival time, two more hours in this faulty airplane that I was just told almost crashed.

The pilot never says a thing and we fly the rest of the way in eerie silence.

__________________________________________

We land safely that day and I walk off that plane determined not to let this flight instill new fear in me. It's not my nature to be afraid. I am bold, I am strong. I am independent. These are the things I tell myself as I try to think my way out of fear's clutches. I am convinced that this one little incident won't damage my psyche and that I will continue to fly with ease.

I am wrong.

I have never boarded another flight without a feeling of sheer terror. It begins the moment I make my reservation and doesn't end until I've landed.

I've tried everything to remain calm: music, valium, scotch, valium and scotch. Nothing works. I am still afraid. I can't think myself out of it.

This pisses me off.

I arm myself with knowledge thinking that might help. I read every possible statistic. I can tell you at any given moment which airline is the safest to fly. I can tell you which airports are most dangerous. I can tell you the safest place to sit.

Want to know the best time of day to fly? I can tell you that too.

Unfortunately none of this does me any good; it doesn't help.

It's supposed to make me feel better, more in control, but instead it has the opposite effect.

Now I know too much; all the new information only fuels the fear.

Before every flight I take a good long look at the pilot to make sure he looks capable, not drunk, tired or pissed off at his wife. It's all I can do, really.

This is the one little game I can play in my mind to make me feel as if I have some degree of control over my destiny.

if I'm not convinced the pilot if competent, I don't board.

Here's the thing though. Do I dread flying? Hell yes. I avoid it whenever I can.

Will I ever let it keep me from exploring this great big world?

No way.

I'll crash and burn before I ever let this fear stop me.

Letter to the thief of innocence: little boy lost

Thu, 4 Mar 2010 17:03:50 -0500

Picture this:

You have a son, a beautiful boy with sapphire eyes, a contagious smile, a crown of blond curls. It is his birthday. On the cake there are four candles and the little boy makes a silent wish:

Don't go.

Do you remember?

Of course this boy is too young to know that his father has chosen this day for his permanent departure. He is too young to know the ways in which adults can murder childhood, leaving you in tiny little pieces.

He longs to make you stay, to make you turn around and wrap him up in your arms, to promise that you'll always be together.

Every boy needs a father, no matter his faults. Without you he will be lost.

But you chose to deny him this gift. Instead you turn away without looking back. You allow him to be taken in by another man, a stranger who wanted his mother and nothing more but reluctantly accepted the baggage that you left in your wake.

For that he made your son pay.

His childhood was quietly stolen from him, usurped by the clutches of a religion he couldn't understand. Your son became a sacrificial lamb for a cult-like dedication to "the truth."

He had plenty of time to wonder why he wasn't good enough, why you traded him for a brand new shiny family. Despite this your boy's spirit remained in tact. He tried to bury the memories of you but never forgot the smell of whisky on your breath.

He wore a broken smile until he couldn't stand it anymore. Then he left, or tried to escape rather, to keep himself from drowning.

He went in search of you, of course, but found he had already been replaced. He quickly learned that women, or a particular woman in this case, came before children and that leftover little boys were better left forgotten.

Imagine his remorse when he was told he'd have to leave. Picture your your wife picking up the phone and pretending as if she didn't know who was calling.

Now imagine his heart sinking when he walked into your mother's home all grown up and now a proud father with a family of his own. Eager to show his wife the photos of childhood that only remained on film, he found that all the pictures of him had been methodically removed.

His entire childhood, his existence, erased.

To this day the memory of that moment brings tears to his eyes. It gives him a good reason to drink more than he should.

Just like you.

As it turns out not everything disappears. Your blood runs through him. Instead of the love he so deserved you left him with a legacy of anger and an ability to escape.

Most of all you taught him how to leave. How to drink. How to become numb to a world that is at times too unforgiving to bear.

Do you think about him now? When you look into the eyes of your new boy do you remember that first soul you brought into the world and then abandoned?

How easy was it to erase a life?

You are a thief of innocence and I can think of no crime that is worse.

I can tell you this: It is your loss.

I have never known a better man. Your son is kind and strong and compassionate. He is smart and intuitive and dedicated to his own child. He has integrity and a great sense of humor. He knows how to love fully and appreciates the people in his life who have shown him the kind of love he never got from you.

I am thankful everyday for this boy you abandoned. For if it weren't for your selfishness he may have never crossed my path.

Reflecting on the beginning of the end

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 20:02:17 -0500

In the picture we are standing at the top of the world, the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania.

The sun has just risen, the sky a dome of pink and purple, the air thick and heavy. I see you perched there, like Ed Hillary, covered in electric blue down, mirrored sunglasses. In your hand you hold a stolen bottle of airplane whisky, toasting our guides.

You wear a customary half smile, the sun lighting your disheveled blond hair like a halo, your breath forming smoky circles in front of you.

I am standing next to you, long tangled locks of raven hair blowing beneath my sherpa hat, a big toothy smile, brown eyes crinkled and sparkling like crescent moons.

Beneath an icy glove I am wearing the ring you have just given me. The green stone is shining, reflecting off the snow like a talisman. My breath is labored, like a scuba diver's but my smile stretches from ear to ear.

We are young.

We are happy.

We are naive.

I still believe in fairytales, in the promise of forever.

For now, this haunting is sweet.

You have just asked me to marry you and I have agreed. We stand together atop the roof of Africa with all things bright and beautiful.

Now, you will be my home.

We expect to live happily ever after, to travel the world side by side, swimming in jungle pools drinking red wine and almond tequila.

You will sing me Swahili love songs and brush the hair from my eyes. Your incandescent promises will whisper to me like prayers.

We will dance naked in our little cottage by the sea, safe behind the white picket fence, our house will be filled with laughter.

These are only dreams of course. We have no idea what lies in store for us. Blinded by your incantation, I am enveloped by your spell.

Later, things will change.

There will be black nights bathed in tears, smiles that pretend, angel embraces from little boys too young to witness the suffocation of a soul.

I will be left to wander naked and alone inside the cool blue shades of midnight adorned by a bracelet of bruises.

Still, I will come to you, broken but hopeful. I'll slide beneath the cloud covers, wrapping myself around you like licorice. I will continue to look for the light.

You will turn your back to me, ignoring my hot tears and beating heart. You will laugh as you watch me chasing happiness and inside I will slowly turn to stone.

My eyes will no longer shine.

Your love is a noose that invites the sort of rage that can only end in silence.

Looking at this picture I want to say to you:

Savor this moment at the top of the world, wear it in your heart like a tattoo. Just know that as soon as you walk back down the side of this mountain you will not feel this way again.

Everything will be different.

You are the wrong man. You are going to do things you cannot imagine you would ever do. You are going to make me suffer in ways I've never dreamt.

I am going to lay in a bed of tears, a baby boy tossing inside me, kicking at my ribs.

I will want to escape.

To leave.

At times, even to die.

I look at this picture now and want to go up to the two people there, standing proudly atop that mountain and whisper:

this is as good as it gets.

I want to tell that pretty girl that the glistening ring will be a brick, that it will drown her. She will lay at the bottom of the ocean, looking up, wondering what went wrong.

I want to tell him that she will make him pay.

But, I don't. I am as frozen as this moment in time. I have the kind of knowledge now that only comes from pain.

From the ashes

Tue, 9 Feb 2010 19:02:55 -0500

Like a ghost

you were caught somewhere between death

and rebirth

rising from the ashes of the past

with an armored smile

and a bloodied heart.

We drift together

in a series of scotch soaked evenings

angel kisses and a hungry wanting

I breathe with you

in the velvet darkness

no longer am I frightened,

This haunting is sweet.

We slide beneath the layers of this cloud like abyss

warm and sacred.

Enveloped in this cocoon of quiet bliss

we are whole again.

Indeed you know these truths.

You have won me over again and again

with your quiet charm

and lost innocence.

In this part joyous

part melancholy seduction

we share moments bitter and sweet

and revel in their divinity

This we know, is sacred.

You lie with me

naked and boyish

and I draw invisible words

on the small of your back.

I softly graze the length of

those limbs

and speak to you in languid strokes.

Lost love

and all its toll taking

have taught us to appreciate

this gift.

The lessons burned

but our wounds give off their own light

and we wear them with honor.

I thank you for the everydays you make into holidays

and for showing me that it's possible

to re arrange the pieces

of a fragmented dream

to create a new destiny

full of boundless beauty, inspiration

and love.

All roads have led to this moment

the path is ours now

with all the days to come shiny and bright.