The Angry Liberal's Living Will

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The Angry Liberal's Living Will

I guess we’re all familiar with the Terry Schiavo story. As big a tragedy as Terry’s plight was, Tom DeLay and his Republican flock found a way to take lemons and make radioactive lemonade. These folks managed to wipe out states’ rights, the right to privacy, the separation of powers, all with one stinking pile of legislative excrement. DeLay, who would have chopped up Terry Schiavo and sold her by the pound if he thought it would benefit his reelection, led the charge to pass the most unconstitutional legislation since the Great Depression, all to prolong his political use of what remained of her sad, sad life. The judicial process eventually triumphed, but not before decent Americans had a chance to see just how frightening the real Republican agenda is. (You know. The one I’ve been complaining about all these years.)

You can still protect yourself from becoming a Republican political football by drawing up a living will. This should allow you to plan the end of your life without interference from right-wing crazies, should the need arise. Until the Republicans can figure out a way to circumvent wills, anyway.

So without further ado, here’s mine. You’re welcome to copy it for your own use, but you might wish to show it to a lawyer first. Being in a persistent vegetative state is a lousy time to find out that the living will you copied from a political Web site run by a non-attorney is unenforceable. Good luck!

Addendum to Last Will and Testament (Living Will)

Should a time come that I enter what has been described as an irreversible “persistent vegetative state,” be it known to all interested parties that I do not wish to have my body outlive my mind. It is my belief that a mindless existence is no existence at all. It is also very expensive. I refuse to have my life’s savings, which could be used to sustain my family, be slowly drained away to maintain a body that, frankly, I was never all that wild about in the first place. I mean, I was tall enough and had great hair, but the swimmer’s frame generally didn’t send the ladies scrambling for pens and slips of paper in bars, if you know what I mean.

My definition of “persistent vegetative state” (and my definition is really the only one that matters, isn’t it?) is as follows: Let the doctors do their thing and form an opinion as to my current brain function and chances for recovery. And by doctors, I mean the house staff. Do not accept the opinion of anybody who may suddenly show up from out-of-state, anybody who has ever met Randall Terry, Jerry Falwell, or anybody whose last name is Bush. I want serious opinions. If the cognitive brain function and chances of recovery are both determined to be essentially nonexistent, I consider that to be persistent and veggy enough. Of course, feel free to get a second opinion. Remember, I’m rooting for me, too.

Once my condition has been determined to meet my criteria for a persistent vegetative state, here’s what I want next: If necessary, take a few days to get used to the idea that while I look alive, I’m really not. You can make this process easier by doing things to me that I would never stand for if I were still around. For instance, make me watch an episode of Fear Factor. Put a NASCAR pennant in my hand, and move my arm around so it looks like I’m waving it. Stick a Walkman on my head and tune in Rush Limbaugh. Convinced that I’m not alive? You should be, by God.

When everybody is cool with the idea that the pile of flesh in front of you looks like me, but really isn’t me, put on some music that I would have enjoyed. I’ve got it narrowed down to either Nat King Cole’s The Very Thought of You or Bob Dylan’s Rainy Day Women #12 & 35. Then start pulling plugs until the only sound of machinery in the room is coming from the air conditioning vents. If I’m still alive in an hour, inject something into one of my tubes that will finish the job (And, yes, I know this is not legal, so don't tell anybody). I’m not sure what and how much to inject. Ask George W. Bush what he used to use on his Texas constituents who were charged with capital crimes and couldn’t afford good attorneys. I’m sure he’ll know what to do. The point is that nobody leaves the room until my living corpse becomes a dead corpse.

Once I reach room temperature, gather all of the family and staff that were present and go out for lunch at T.G.I. Friday’s. When you get there, tell them that I just died and the group wants a cake and a song from the staff to mourn my passing. Then enjoy watching the ever-cheerful staff try to come up with something appropriate.

Contingencies:

In the event that my brain function is determined to be only severely impaired, say on par with a Bush supporter who makes less than $100,000 per year, my wife may use her best judgement. Does she want to hang around a hospital for years, cutting my fingernails, wiping drool off of my chin, and filling out National Rifle Association membership paperwork for me? Probably not. It’s up to you, sweetie, but pulling the plug wouldn’t hurt my feelings any. Life is for the living. Find a new, slightly less charming companion and move on.

Here’s what I want if anybody should try to interfere with my wishes as expressed here, including but not limited to the following: Shameless politicians desperate to score brownie points with the small group of fundamentalist morons whom they consider their core constituency, Bible-thumping idiots who apparently are employed at companies that offer unlimited protest/prayer vigil time off, candle-toting teenagers stopping by the hospital on the way to the Ashlee Simpson concert, and anybody with less than a full set of teeth. Should a group consisting of any of these people begin to form in the vicinity of the hospital, it is my wish that the family or hospital staff member with the best pitching arm should take my most recent bedpan offering and fling it in their general direction. There are thousands of people in the world who lose their lives every day from lack of proper medical care, needless wars (you hear me talkin’, Dubya?), unhealthy air, water, and food, and just plain hopelessness, and the vast majority of these folks aren’t in persistent vegetative states. What hypocritical creep would waste a single second trying to “save” me without first saving all of these other lives, you ask? See the list above.

In the event that any group of the previously mentioned creeps actually manages to interfere with my wish to die as outlined here, here is a simple and foolproof plan to allow the fulfillment of my wish: Sculpt a recent bowel movement of mine into a likeness of the Virgin Mary. Rush out of the hospital and show it to the reporters and protesters, and in the ensuing hysteria, quickly pull the plugs. My guess is that in the presence of a “Coma-Poop Miracle,” most of these people won’t even notice as you load up my belongings and drive off.

And in closing, to those who may question the end of life that I have chosen, I quote the eternally eloquent Billy Joel:

I don’t care what you say any more. This is my life. Go ahead with your own life. Leave me alone.

(Vocal and musical talent, and he got to date Elle MacPherson. Boy, life really wasn’t fair, was it?)

Signed and witnessed this ____th day of _____________, 20__

Signature: __________________________________________

Witness: ___________________________________________

4/11/05