Ask Not for Whom the Bell Tolls

This quotation evokes a funny family story. When Mama was in graduate school, she was expecting a call from a friend one afternoon. The phone rang and Mama answered, “Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” Not the friend, alas. The caller was her major professor. (Is that term for Master’s candidates?) The professor did not have a sense of humor.

My mortality has been in my face, so to speak, for the last few months. Not illness or rapid physical decline. My responsible daughter Anne asked me to prepare and execute end-of-life documents. I hemmed and hawed around. Procrastination is one of my most well-developed life skills and I brought out all the stops, so to speak. I knew what a hard time she’d had getting her dad on Medicaid when he moved into skilled nursing care. She had the Social Security Administration (SSA), Veterans’ Administration, and banks to deal with. She didn’t have a power of attorney from him so every point, except SSA, took weeks of calls and providing papers and more calls. The nursing care facility could back date claims for, I think, four months, and Anne got the documents in just and Medicaid approval under the wire. To say, I understood her wanting everything she’ll need when the time comes. So, I tried to develop a sense of urgency.

I had one spurt last fall when I asked a lawyer friend to prepare a business affairs power of attorney. I asked him to do one for medical proxy, too, but he said the ones you can get online are good. In a week or so, I got the letter with the document—heavy cream paper with business font (I mean I sat up straighter when I read it), and a place for execution and notary statement. Whoa! I was on my way!

I found a good medical proxy document and started filling it out. Instead of a doc for me just to say “my daughter can make medical care decisions for me in the event of my incapacity,” this document wanted the details—all the details. “If you are in such-and-such condition, do you want resuscitation?” “How about if there’s this nuance or that?” “If you’re on life support, when do you want it withdrawn?” (Never was not an option, please be sure of that. << dark humor) I imagined all sorts of what-ifs. I put the project down as really not suitable for the Thanksgiving to Christmas to New Year’s celebratory weeks.

January 2023 came and here I sat with my looked-at and partially filled in medical proxy. I talked with Anne over the phone and then in person. And then I talked with my son, the doctor. My primary concern (read: terrifying fear) was that I would look like I was suitable for plug pulling when I was really still in there—in here, actually. My daughter who’s a nurse and the son who’s a doctor both said when we’re making the decision to remove life support there is no question that there is no brain activity and that this is no expectation that brain activity will resume. So … then we—all three children and I—got to the real bottom line bottom line. “Please stay with me. Please hold me. Please in those last moments let me know that you love me. And don’t let me be alone when I’m leaving.” And they comforted me and cared for me.

And I finished the document and executed both the business and medical documents before the notary who completed the notary statement. As the kids had said, once you finish the documents, you can put this aside again. And I have. Mostly.

— Marmar