I have instructed both my husband and my mother that if someday my cerebral cortex should turn to Orange Crush with no possible hope of recovery, or if I'm incapacitated by illness or injury to such an extreme, they are forbidden to take extraordinary measures to prolong my sorry existence. No feeding tube, no life support, no ventilator. Just let me go.
I have no wish or desire to be a poster girl in diapers. I don't want Tom Delay or Terry Randall or Bill Frist to be anywhere near my hospital room. I don't want to be the subject of a CNN Poll, a Fox Breaking News Alert or debated by Congress or the Senate. I want to die with dignity.
My beloved grandparents suffered for over a year, both comatose, before they finally passed within two weeks of each other. If it had been within my power to end their suffering sooner, I would have gladly pulled the plug myself.
My family feels as strongly as I do that the government has no cause to meddle in this sad, tragic affair, other than for trite political pandering by a pest exterminator.
Mikey, my big brother, blew his brains out in the spring of 2002. I grieve for him every day of my life. But if by some mischance the bullet had left him otherwise breathing but brain dead, I would have taken on God and Satan with both hands tied behind my back to let my Mikey go.