The art of dying
Dying is a lost art. If we know what ails us we spend every waking hour seeking a cure, or the most cutting edge treatments if no cure is to be had. In that search we give up time, precious time that could be spent with loved ones or doing things that were put off because of family and responsibilities.
There is nothing inherently wrong in trying to extend our lives, in fact it is probably coded in our DNA. But it is not the only, or necessarily the best, choice.
I have my share of ailments, and am about to get diagnosed with another I’m sure. I have no interest in tracking down treatments that will leave me drained and feeling sicker than the actual disease.
Don’t go off in a panic, I’m not suicidal and am probably too much of a weenie anyway to ever do such a thing.
But doctors and others don’t know what to do with people like me. They send us for psychiatric counseling because surely we are nuts!
I am not nuts, and I’m not suicidal, but not waking up would not completely piss me off. I take insulin for my diabetes and oxygen for my pulmonary hypertension but more intensive, extensive treatments I’ll take a pass on.
I’ll take what good days I get, and spend them well. That’s dying well to me.