Wissot: When enough really is enough
I was having a silent conversation with myself late one night over whether I wanted to experience the downside of becoming elderly. My wife, Alyn, only permits me to silently speak to myself. She gets very testy when I carry on these conversations out loud because it reminds her that she married a deeply disturbed man.
There are different definitions for what it means to be elderly. In many Western countries, elderliness is an economic threshold that begins between ages 65-70 when most people retire. In psychological terms, people are elderly when they can no longer care for themselves and must trade independent living for assisted living. The point at which I will need help from others to take care of my daily needs is the part of being elderly that weighs me down.
I’ve enjoyed being independent since I was 21. The thought of needing people to care for me reminds me of what it was like being a child. It frightens me to think that my last years could resemble my first years when my parents were my caretakers.
I’ve resolved my fears of death by tricking myself into believing that the end of life means the end of consciousness. Why fear what you won’t know is happening to you? That’s my way of pushing back against the inevitable arrival of the grim reaper.
Growing elderly in ways that mean the end to independence is an entirely different matter.
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I will be well aware of what is happening to me when I’m beholden to paid strangers for my care. I won’t be able to deny I’m being helped to eat, walk, bathe and do all the things I once did for myself before I succumbed to the ravages of aging.
If I could skip this elderly stage, I would. But how? Suicide is not an option. I love life too much to consider ending it because I fear what fate may have in store for me later.
What I need is someone to do the dirty work for me. Someone who could fulfill my wish to avoid the loss of independence I dread. Who might that be? An assassin? Don’t be silly.
I’m too cheap to pay someone to kill me.
The only one qualified to take me out is the one responsible for bringing me in: God. I dream of being able to text God and ask for a meet and greet. Any place God chooses would be fine. At our rendezvous location I would make this request: “God, knowing that you are the only one who knows when and how I’m going to die, could you please accelerate the death date to the morning I’m being driven to the nursing home.”
I’d be entirely deferential to God (generally a good rule anyway) as to the method used to hasten my departure. It could be a car accident on the drive that morning or a fatal fall on arrival. As long as my death is due to God’s will, the way I exit this world will be fine with me.
I’m joking, of course, about texting God for a meet and greet. As everyone knows the number is unlisted. But I’m serious about wanting my life to end before I’m admitted to a nursing home.
I believe my cavalier attitude about seeing my life terminated is because I’ve been blessed with a wonderful one. It’s not that I wouldn’t want to continue living if I were assured that the mental and physical well-being I enjoy now wouldn’t change. Hell, under those circumstances, living to 150 or 200 would be peachy keen.
It’s my appreciation for the life I’ve been given (I attribute it more to good luck than merit on my part), which allows me to not fret about longevity. I’ve been granted 77 years to enjoy people, books, music, travel, sports, more than enough time to experience moments of blissful contemplation and ecstatic exhilaration. I really couldn’t have asked for more, which is why I’m not asking for more. Enough is really enough when you’ve had so much rewarding enough.
As to what I’ll miss when I’m no longer here, the answer is everything.
Jay Wissot is a resident of Denver and Vail. Email him at jayhwissot@mac.com.
