I don't want to die

I have put off writing this because it will make me feel bad. At the same time, wring is how I process things, so until I write about it, I’ll feel bad.

I recently asked my sister to tell me if I ever become too hard for them to deal with. It’s not that I have gotten appreciably worse; it’s just that having a 135-pound lump — even one who occasionally buys dinner — is no fun. Trust me, the lump isn’t having a blast either. And like most people, I have been bombarded with right-to-die stories recently and people commenting on these stories.

Someone wrote how mad it makes her that we can end our pets’ suffering but not our own. I love Claren as much as possible, but she’s a dog. She’s not a person. She’s smart, but she does not have an intellect. She’s a dog.

Someone else wrote that everyone should be able to decide when it’s time (if terminally ill). But why just terminally ill? It seems a slippery slope until anyone can decide to kill themselves.

Also, maybe not now or tomorrow but how long before someone who did kill herself is used as a line in the sand to justify killing someone who isn’t asking to die? “Well, Joe thought he had no quality or life when his lung cancer spread to his brain. well be doing Brian a favor by killing him.”

And are people like me considered selfish jerks — by others or in our own mind — because we don’t off ourselves?

Your body’s systems shut down during death. How can any self-inflicted death be dignified? You are forcing your body to give up. In sports, teams that are losing badly aren’t considered dignified if they give up. They’re dignified if they fight.

Finally, we don’t believe doctor who tell us ebola is really really hard to get, but we believe them when they say we have five months left. WTF?

My sister answered me dubiously about how hard I am to deal with: So we can put you in a home? It didn’t answer the question, but it was a good answer nonetheless.