First, you lick your finger and then you stick it …
Hello, hungry people.
Earlier this week I visited our family doctor for my annual physical exam.
No! Please don’t stop reading! I promise this will not devolve into a lengthy discussion of my various aches and pains or the state of my prostate. Everything’s fine. Except the parts that aren’t. I’ll settle for that.
The only bump in the road came during the pre-exam part when the nurse went down the normal list of questions — “Have your medications changed?” “Have you experienced sudden weight loss or gain?” — and ended with: “Do you have a Living Will?”
To which I answered: “No.”
They ask me this every year when I get a physical. And every year I tell myself that I really need to put my affairs in order should something cataclysmic happen, which more and more seems like every day.
But this year, the nurse gave me The Look. It was The Look that said: “You’re almost 75. Have you ever heard of an Actuarial Life Table?”
Sure, I’ve heard of an Actuarial Life Table. It’s something I’ve strenuously avoided looking at over the years because, you know, what’s the point? There’s no way to rig the outcome. And there’s no sense in dwelling on it.
Still, the moment I got home I looked up the official Actuarial Life Table from the Social Security Administration, which showed the following for people my age and what we’ve got to look forward to:
I’ll do the math for you. Out of every 100,000 guys who were born in 1950, same as me, there are 56,849 of us still alive.
I can expect to live another 10.62 years. Hurray!
But I shouldn’t absolutely count on it because the probability of me dying in the next year is 4 percent, which I gotta say is higher than I’d like it to be.
So being of reasonably sound mind (it’s OK to snicker here) and wanting to gloat if I survive until next year’s exam, I sat down and wrote myself a Living Will.
I hereby and henceforth (insert other meaningless legalese) insist that:
If I should remain in a persistent vegetative state and utter only guttural, meaningless sounds, I think it’s obvious that I should be … elected to the Florida Legislature.
If it appears that I am unable to interact with certain friends or family members … this is normal.
If I do not respond to stimuli, such as Wet Willie’s in my ear, please tell my grandson Zeke to stop it already and go torment someone else.
If I am unable to clean or bathe myself, it’s OK to call me … Sponge Bob.
Do not resuscitate me unless … there is a double espresso at bedside.
After I am allowed to die a painless and peaceful death, I would like my organs donated to any church that will agree to play them on alternate Sundays.
If my death is particularly dramatic, I expect an eight-episode series on Netflix and, if Clooney turns down my part, it’s OK to get any reasonably good-looking actor except Timothée Chalamet.
If there is any family dispute over my medical condition, it must be settled by playing rock, paper, scissors.
Even if I remain in a persistent vegetative state for more than a year, that still doesn’t mean my lovely wife can wear a T-shirt that says “I’m with Stupid.”
If my doctor pronounces me brain-dead, I grant permission to change my voter registration to Republican.
I do not wish to be kept alive by any machine that has a “baked potato” setting.
I would like to die at home, surrounded by my Visa bills.
In lieu of flowers or donations, I would prefer a weeklong wake with a martini bar, exceptional ganja and a strolling accordionist.
I bestow my entire estate to my dog, Marcus, so that he might travel widely and share his flatulence with the world.
In the event of an open coffin, someone please trim those wiry little hairs that grow out of my ears.
And please assume that, even in a coma, I can still hear any and all discussions pertaining to food and unless you can jam it in the tube and share it with me then kindly shut the hell up.
Which brings us, as it so often does, to Today’s Poll! Please excuse the existential nature of today’s question. It’s a bit of a downer. Blame it on me having spent too much time studying that goddam actuarial table.
Love this, now I know….how about the question they ask about offing yourself? That one kills me.😉
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