83

Hey! Content warning! I talk about death and dying in this one. If this will upset you, skip it, okay? (MOM, this means you.)

As you know, I couldn’t have children, so I often think very hard about what the waning years of my life will look like. As a result I devour news stories where people take control of their end. In 2014 I read this article (“Why I Hope to Die”, The Atlantic, link goes to archive.is written by a very level-headed and acclaimed physician who pledged that he didn’t want to live past 75 years old. Every word resonated.

And I started thinking, at which age do I predict I’m going to turn the corner from being self-sufficient into being dependent?. Sure, I have a marginally younger husband. And I have Nephews A & B but it’d be unfair for me to hitch my wagon to the expectation that they (or let’s be real, the women they may marry) would take care of me.

Based on how long my grandparents lived, the shape they were in at the end, and a gut feeling, I chose the age of 83. I’m not going to kill myself at 83, but once I reach that age, I will stop medical tests and screenings along with any other and medical procedures that are not palliative in nature.

Naturally, this is all subject to change.

It’s all subject to change because changing one’s mind is an option.

A few weeks ago I read this story about a woman who ended her own life in her eighties because she felt herself starting to fail and was afraid she’d end up incapacitated for the long term. Her story is a little bit thrilling, but when I Googled the Final Exit Network to read more about their advocacy, Google tossed up hotlines and a few mental health links before I reached the actual organization’s site. Annnd that scared me off. It’s still so taboo and feels like a different flavor of suicidal ideation. I’m not in any way suicidal, I just would love to be able to tie up the loose ends of my life when and how I want to.

But not by riding a Euthanasia Coaster. Nope.