Die Trying: Part II

One of the many family jokes at my expense is about my Type A personality. Several of us are taken prisoner by terrorists of some kind.  “We are going to shoot one of you every hour," the burly leader threatens.  “I’ll go first!” I yelp.  My cool, calm son-in-law, Tim, would say, “I’ll go last, and I would also like to go over this plan with you.” He’s an investment counselor, so he’s used to money--volatility, extreme nervousness, and Type A folks like me, who like the Rainbow trout in our famous Yellowstone River, leap for the first fly.  [I must mention here that I do eat fish, but I do not catch them. I leave such sport to Bruce Hafen and Vic Forsnes, two experts who also find time to read books and do tons of church work.]

It did not surprise my wife, when for my 40^th birthday, I treated myself to a DNR bracelet. “Do Not Resuscitate.” Good fortune and the Lord’s protection kept me safe for my wife and family until everyone was squared away... sort of.

When Carolyn passed away, I (as the kids say), “tricked out" myself with an additional DNR necklace the size of a Harley Davidson Motorcycle chain.

When I moved to Austin, however, I found myself in the paper-chase capital of the US.  Only the Germans love stamp-pads, duplicate copies, and legal work more than Texans.

Jumping through the hoops, I became completely paranoid.  I added reduced-size copies of my Living Will to my necklace, a list of my children’s phone numbers, my attorney’s number and copies of all ephemera in my bedroom. Sharon and Steve Oakey can testify of my madness.  When I told them what I was schlepping around my neck, they doubted.  I lifted my shirt, which was about as horrifying as lifting a pant leg. There dangled a deck of documents that looked like a cool hand right out of Vegas.

When I moved to Texas to live with my daughter, Lora and her family, Austin officials told me I was “completely unofficial.”  My Living Will is invalid in Texas, so I hired a new attorney for a Living Will which includes the added word "TEXAS."

And yes, I also had to buy new DNR bling, engraved “Texas style”: “Texas OOH," which translated into Idahoan means, “In the country of Texas, do not resuscitate me Outside Of Hospital.” But my paranoia still drives me to wonder whether a rookie nurse would know what she should not do inside the hospital.

Finally, full of frustration, I wrote the Surgeon General.  I’m guessing it’s the gal with the uniform and all that fruit salad on her chest.  My complaint went unanswered, though I was sent an interview schedule should I wish to fly to Washington DC to talk things over.  I leave you with the paragraph that sums up the agitation of a transplanted Idahoan, where rules are anathema.

“My point, Madam/Staff member/General, is that I’m still trying to figure out just what one must do here in order to have a “clean” death.  How in the Hell does one die inexpensively and quickly?  How do I stay in the Tunnel before an overly-anxious intern pulls me back into the relentless heat and drought of this place?  Like Rick, in “Casablanca,” I was “misinformed about Texas being part of these United States.  The folks here tell me I need a separate, unique Texas Living Will.  What happens, General, if some tourist from South Dakota happens to face-plant in downtown Austin while on vacation?” 

So, take this for what it’s worth.  Probably nothing.  At an assisted care facility in Rexburg, of 80 patients, only 5 had DNRs.  Someone has to pay the light bill in that building on the hill.  I think I know who.  Let me end this jaundiced diatribe with a book suggestion that just might change your life—and your death:  Susan Jacoby’s, Never Say Die.