My Living Will

Dear reader,

Lately, my thoughts have been drifting toward swine flu. I find this alarming, since usually my thoughts drift toward encephalitis, botulism, and syphilitic brain-softening, in that order, right after I think about what I want for lunch, contemplate the good, and imagine a naked lady. What is this new fear in my hypochondriac closet of illnesses? It’s making me nervous. Only a sick person (perhaps someone with encephalitis!) would add a new disease to his litany of imagined infections. Granted, swine flu seems an upstart compared to a healthy neurodegenerative disease. And it’s so low brow. Even the newspapers scrawl about it. But, then again, the 1918 Spanish flu killed millions. And I have always been drawn to anachronism….

I’m sure this epidemic is nothing to worry about, but just in case, I’m writing a living will. Since you are the only person I trust, I am designating you to execute it. In the event of an emergency, please see to it that my wishes are carried out. Thank you, even though I despise you for staying alive and healthy longer than me.

Yours,

P.G.

----------------------

Dear Executor of my living will,

If you are reading this, then I am lying in a hospital bed in a completely leguminous state, no doubt stricken by one of the maladies I so feared. And you called me a hypochondriac. Looks like I really did have something to worry about after all. Just out of curiosity, what was it that got me? It was that dented can of lentils, wasn’t it? Or maybe a flesh-eating virus from riding the city bus that one time? I told you public transportation would be the death of me. Well, whatever it was, I’m not dead yet. I intend to drink up the dregs of life still floating in my inert limbs. And you’re going to help me.

Did you ever see that movie “The Bucket List”? I saw it on an airplane, and though I was feeling a little panicked and congested from all the microbes circling in those winged germ labs, I found it poignant (though poignancy is a common side effect of Dramamine). And it got me thinking; before it it’s too late, there are some things in life I want to do. Why should I be cooped up in bed comatose when there’s a whole world out there for me and my many tubes and breathing machines to explore? Carpe diem!

First, I’ve always wanted to go water-skiing. Before I fell into a coma, I refrained out of fear of pollutants. The Great Lakes seemed like one giant network of bed pans. I figured I might as well have gone swimming in a toilet. That was the old me. Now I want you to take me to Cleveland, strap some skies on my feet, tie me to a boat in Lake Erie, and let rip. Then I want you to take me swimming in a toilet.

Next, I would like to write a novel. The fancy kind where everyone talks about what a thundering talent I am, makes excuses for my fascist sympathies and infamous drinking problem, and writes me bootlicking poems on my birthday. First, put an eye-patch on me and carve a deep gash in my cheek—something that will leave a scar and give me an old world literary mystique. Then, they say to write what you know, so for a working title I’m thinking Portrait of the Artist as a Drooling Vegetable. Of course, this will require your help. I’ve devised an ingenious system of communication, where every time I twitch you start cycling through the alphabet and when I twitch again, you write down whichever letter you’re at. If I am not twitching, feel free to jostle me. I think this is going to be good.

Becoming a famous novelist has made me realize how important family is. It’s the seemingly trivial moments— sitting around the dinner table, sharing stories by the hearth, sponging down my lifeless bed-sore body—that really count. That’s why I want you to move my body to my brother’s home and see to it that I enjoy three meals a day with his family. His wife Deb will see to my feeding and hygienic upkeep. As is my want in my helpless state, I’ll have French toast for breakfast, a roast for lunch, and chile rellenos for dinner, all piped down my food straw. See to it Deb stuffs the chiles herself, daily, right after she gives me my mid-morning undercarriage scrub. Every afternoon, the kids will tell me how school was. For the sake of their education, I’d like to make them legally obligated to answer in full paragraphs in proper Latin and German. And on the weekends, my brother won’t have to go through the trouble of looking for someone to share his season tickets. I’ll gladly go to every game with him. That should make up for his having been the favorite son.

Thank you. This coma has given me a new lease on life. My will is done.

p.s. Don’t pull the plug!