Don't fear the Reaper, fear the reaping

I have been intimate with the porcelain throne. I woke at 2 a.m. with one thought sounding urgently in my brain, "I am going to throw up." And I did ... repeatedly. Stretched out in the hallway in front of the bathroom door, I had time on my hands between bouts of serious retching to reflect on just how crappy it is to be sick. I didn't have the energy to get myself a blanket, so I shivered on the carpet until LegoGuy stepped over me to go the bathroom, somewhere around 3 o'clock, and then brought me a blanket and a pillow.

Think about what it means when someone says to you, "Well, at least you have your health." It is a truly profound statement, and can only be fully appreciated while in the throes of a 24-hour virus.

The day before, I'd listened to a moving story about a young woman who lost her husband to a brain tumor. She'd watched him change from a loving and gentle man to a violent, verbally-abusive stranger. After battling the tumor for a year, he died, and she was glad. Yet, there on my carpeted pallet, I thought about him. What a hellish existence, the gradual loss of self, the theft of his ability to speak, recognizing fear in the eyes of his wife and children, and having to depend on them at the end for his basic needs.

"If I had a brain tumor, would you take a rock and crush my skull?" I asked SO later, when I was finally feeling a little better.

"No, but I might smother you with a pillow."

"What about injecting an air bubble into my veins? Would that feel like indigestion?" But he wanted to read more than he wanted to discuss possible end-of-life solutions.

I've never been afraid of death, but I am afraid of the process of dying. I hate the thought of having to depend on someone to bring me a cup of ice chips or to make me a bowl of soup. I don't want to rely upon the kindness of strangers to give me a sponge bath or feed me a bit of jello. When it's my time, I want it over with in a heartbeat.

This is why I am embracing a recent diagnosis of high cholesterol. Both of my parents have high cholesterol. I've inherited it from them. Instead of correcting it by diet or drug, I coddle it and nickname it Clara. Clara is my ticket out of here -- look out massive heart attack, here I come!

Unless the polar ice caps melt first. I'm not that strong a swimmer.