How to Die in Oregon

As some of you may know, I'm writing a book about people who work with death in their professions.  While doing my research, I thought it would be interesting to meet someone who knew the day they were going to die.  There are only two people who know this date--people who choose to end their life and a person with an execution date on death row.  I chose to speak with someone on death row, as I felt it would be easier when their death might be "justified." Well, if you've read my blog or know me, that didn't exactly turn out as planned.  I was totally affected by this experience and am now totally against the death penalty.

Anyway, so last night I had the pleasure of watching a movie about terminally ill people in Oregon who choose to end their lives.  And yes, I said pleasure.  This is an important film, and although it was difficult to watch, I'm so glad I did.  Why?  Because anyone who watches this film will have a conversation about death and THIS IS AN IMPORTANT conversation to have.

The film, How to Die in Oregon opens with a home video of a terminally ill older man choosing to hasten his death by gulping down a lethal dose of Seconal mixed with warm water.  His family and a caseworker with Compassion and Choices are all present for his final exit.  It was quite an intro and I was startled to say the least.  It was kind of like that feeling when Drew Barrymore's character is killed in the first Scream.  If the director is going to kill off the biggest name actress in the first fifteen minutes of the film, nobody is safe. So if HTDIO starts right off with a death, I knew that I would inevitably be more emotionally invested in the characters as the film progressed. 
And I was.  There is a fairly large cast of characters and each person is struggling with end of life choices.  Something we all will do one day.

I don't want to give away the film, but the most difficult story line was that of Cody Curtis, a vibrant 54 year-old wife and mother of two who was diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer.  She is the "star" of this documentary.  We meet her family, her friends, and her doctor.  We get to witness her hopes and fears as her health declines.  The scene that really got me takes place in a beauty salon where Cody goes in for a final trim.  It was so hard to watch.  The film ends with the camera fixed on a window outside of Cody's house on the night she chooses to die.  We can hear what's going on inside the house.  The family sings, the drink is mixed and Cody comments about how "easy" it was. Fade to black.

I know I'm probably not going to get a ton of commentary on this topic, but I'd like for you to consider some of the thoughts that came into my mind as I watched this film.

Why should people have to suffer if they don't want to?  Heck, when we euthanize an animal, it's usually to end their suffering. 
Why does anyone have to "battle" a disease? Shouldn't they get to pick and choose their battles and surrender when they want to?

Dying is not a failure, it's an inevitability.  I talked to my 78 year-old Dad yesterday and we talked about his sister who died recently.  I asked him if he had any end of life wishes.  He said that when his life stopped being "fun" he'd drink a bottle of bourbon and go into his garage and start his car's engine.  Knowing my dad, he's not just being dramatic.  How sad is that that he wouldn't be able to exit his life in a more dignified manner?  A neighbor will inevitably discover him.  They will be traumatized.  His family will be traumatized.  So, how did I respond?  I said, "Dad, could you at least let me know if and when you plan on doing that so I can at least say goodbye and make sure you get cremated?"  He said he would.  Hey, I know it sounds weird, but at least it's a start.

I sincerely hope that everyone checks out this wonderful film.  It is currently playing on HBO till mid June.

Wake UP! To Death

A couple of weeks ago, I was interviewed by Melody Brooke for her show Wake Up! on Women's Radio.  You can listen to the interview here.

If you are a regular reader of my blog--and I say this with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek.  I check my stats, um, like hourly and I don't receive what you would call huge amounts of traffic--so this is my blog of shame.  Not that there is anything wrong with being on internet radio, but if you happened to read my former post about unplugging from social media for a week, you now have physical proof that I was unable to keep that promise.  It only took three days to make me stare at my computer screen like a junkie.  I was powerless against the allure of Facebook, Twitter, blogs--basically the entire internet in general.  I couldn't help myself.  I felt so alone, so disconnected from people's rants and meal choices and political views, not to mention Arnold's LOVE CHILD and I know I claimed that I felt alone when I was engaging in social media outlets, but it's a different kind of alone.  Trust me.

All I ask is that you please forgive me for my weakness.

So what did I do during my very brief hiatus?  I wrote.  Actually, I edited.  I read two books.  Yes, I did that in three days.  I'm a speed reading graduate of Evelyn Woods, thank you very much.  (Actually, that's a complete and total lie.)  I did lots of laundry.  I ironed some pants.  I ate lots of pep-o-mint life savers.  And then I cracked.

And now I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

I love you internet.  You are such a wonderful distraction from my life. In moderation, of course.  And no porn.

The end.

Pulling the Plug

Despite the name of this post and that it appears on a blog about death, this post is not about the decision to end a person's life by "pulling the plug."  If searching for reassurance or information about "pulling the plug" is how you ended up on this page, let me apologize.  The internet can bring you to a lot of weird places depending on your search terms.  So before you go, I'd like to wish you good luck with your search, but I'd also like for you to do something brave.  I'd like for you to ask a real, live person.  You know, face to face?  You could ask a doctor or a hospice nurse or a minister or a chaplain or a priest or your mom or your dad or maybe even your best friend.  Do it over coffee or a soda or maybe even water.  The only condition is that you are in the same room. Turn your phone off.  Same goes for the computer and the tv.  See what happens.

Are you still here?  Great.  If not, see ya, wouldn't want to be ya. 

Okay, so what is this post about?  It's about disconnection.  I don't know about you, but all these social media sites like Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter are bringing me down.  In fact, I've never felt so alienated before and this is coming from a woman who used to eat her lunch in the library because she was afraid of the rejection that awaited her in the Junior High lunchroom.

For the past year, I've been seriously debating whether or not to continue down this path, but as a writer, I've been told that social media is a necessary evil.  How are people going to find out about you or follow you if they don't know about you? And my response is, what the hell happened to WORD OF MOUTH?  Like in, going out to eat with someone and saying, "I just read this really great essay in a print journal that I bought at a brick and mortar bookseller.  You should check it out.  It's funny and sad at the same time and I really think you'd dig it the most."  Am I crazy or what?  Ironically, I joined a hashtag discussion group on Twitter called #MYWANA or We Are Not Alone. 

We are totally alone.  Sorry.  And I hope that when you are on your death bed that there are people in the room to hold your hand.  Let's hope that condolences aren't tweeted at you or texted or that people don't announce your last breath on facebook for people to "like."  (Ultimately they will complain that FB needs a dislike button for this kind of news.)

I feel like Pavlov's dog as I check my @replies or see who "liked" my post on facebook.  I waste so much time on these sites looking for a little validation that I exist or that I matter.  And I despise this feeling.  I do matter.  Maybe I only matter to a few people, but that's okay.  If you want to de-friend me or unfollow me, so be it.  I am taking away its power for awhile and see what happens.  Next week, I'm going to unplug from all social media and see what happens.  My husband doesn't think I can do it.  There is money involved.

So what am I going to do?  I may enjoy a night with my family playing a game from a cardboard box.  Or I might meet someone for a cup of coffee.  If anything, I might actually get some writing done.  Alone.  Without anyone cheering.

Zuzu's Petals

I wish that everyone had this feeling today and every day.

And no I'm not talking about getting arrested.

It's that moment when you discover that this is it, so you might as well appreciate it.

In Honor of Free Comic Book Day

I'm going to pimp Mike McMullen's humorous memoir I, Superhero. Yes, I know, free comic book day is over and they never wrote a comic about the Amazing Whitebread, but they should.  After all, he wears tights so that we won't have to.  And he's a helluva nice guy.

 

I met Mike at the DFW Writers Conference He was on a nonfiction panel that I attended.  Afterwards, I saw him in the hall and said, "Hey, where can I buy your book?"  And being a total Super-d-duper nice guy, he handed me a copy for FREE.  Yes, that's right, ladies and gentleman, I celebrated Free Comic Book Day way before all ya'll.  What is the lesson learned in this little scenario?  Is it Superheroes do nice things for needy people who can't afford to buy books?  NO.  The lesson learned here is that Mike needs to stop giving away his book.  People need to buy it.  Like from here.

And why do people need to buy it?  I'll tell you why.

McMullen has a wonderful self deprecating wit and absurd sense of humor that made me laugh out loud. Not many can do this, so McMullen is in good company with David Sedaris and Mary Roach who've made me look like a lunatic in public spaces while reading their wacky tales from real life.

The set up of the book is that McMullen wants to become a Superhero for his son, "The Biscuit."  Here's a little excerpt about Mike's poor food choices and the love of his life.

     I get the little one, you can call him "Biscuit," and give him a big good afternoon hug before flopping him down on the changing table.  I open the diaper and have to swallow the chunk of cookie in my mouth to force the vomit back down.  At this point one thing is abundantly clear: feeding a fourteen-month-old fish sticks at every meal for a week, no matter how much he likes them, was a grievous strategic error.  It's what I would imagine a fishing boat would smell like if the entire crew had died of dysentery and drifted a few weeks before being found.  If fatherhood can be compared to a war, this diaper is Normandy...

So, we learn that McMullen has a few flaws (what good Superhero doesn't?), that he has a killer sense of humor and that he has the support of his family in this crazy scheme.  The rest of the book, Mike hits the road and meets several members of the Real Life Superheroes.  Mike dares to say what most of us think and for that I applaud him.  His writing style is conversational and fun.  After I finished the book, I felt really proud to have met him.  And now I want my book signed.  I wonder if he has an Amazing Whitebread signal, like Batman?  Perhaps I could burn my toast and he'd come running to scrape the crusty blackened bits into the sink, or maybe I could just contact him on his blog.

Anyway, in addition to enjoying a fun read, I also used his random superhero name generator.  Ready? This is the Mischieviously Tall Sea Sponge signing out.



Today is National No Diet Day! And now for something completely different...

Yes, boys and girls, this blog is about death.  Why?  Because I'm writing a book about it and I'm trying to build my media platform.  But, I also want to write in support of fellow writers that I like and that you should like too.  And that brings me to Kim.

“Every weight loss program, no matter how positively it’s packaged, whispers to you that you’re not right.  You’re not good enough.  You’re unacceptable  and you need to be fixed.”  Kim Brittingham

     I don’t know if it’s because I came of age in the consumer excess of the eighties, or if it’s just a byproduct of being born female, but as a result of one or maybe both of these conditions, I used to believe in the possibility of magical transformation through acquisition of something that existed outside of myself.  For example, in the sixth grade, I felt that owning a pair of leather Nike tennis shoes with a blue swoosh on the side would make me happier.  I begged and I pleaded with my single mother, insisting against her resistance that my happiness was dependent on possessing a pair of $50 shoes.  Everyone else had them, so why can’t I? 

     Well, for one, we were broke.  So I scrimped and I saved and I bought the dang shoes.  I wore them every day until my big toes eventually pushed their way out of the top of the well worn leather.  Despite the fact that they adorned my feet in every waking hour of my adolescent life, I didn’t feel any different.  So now what?  Well, I’ll tell you. The search began for the next perfect thing to make me feel different, better and/or happier.  Since overpriced tennis shoes didn’t do the trick right out of the starting gate, the next most obvious choice for my 1982 suburbia dwelling self were designer jeans.  There were so many to choose from—Sasson, Jordache, Calvin Klein, Gloria Vanderbilt.  I tried them all and nothing made me feel any better.  Then it was purses and shoes and sweaters—Oh, MY!  Finally, it became hair care products—I felt that the perfect shampoo/conditioner combo would tame my frizzy hair and solve all the kinks of my crooked life.  Wrong.

     What this long winded intro brings me to is a new book by Kim Brittingham called, “Read My Hips:  How I Learned to Love My Body, Ditch Dieting and Live Large.”  Before I go further, I must be honest—I know Kim and consider her a friend.  So, the conspiracy theorists out there are probably saying, “Well of course you are going to like her book.”  Obviously, you don’t know me.  I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it if it wasn’t good.  And it is good.  This collection of essays will make you laugh, some will make you cry—Fat Aunt Phyllis—and others just might make you want to throw away your skinny jeans.  (You know the pair.  The perfectly faded Levi’s from 96 that will never, ever go over your hips again because you’ve had two children and you like ice cream and Nutella way too much.)

     The essays in this collection are about Kim’s journey to acceptance.  Of herself.  Just the way she is.  And although I’m a size 10 and have been since high school, this book was still relatable to me.  I’ve known since youth that I didn’t fit the mold in our society.  I was tall, pasty white and frizzy haired.  In other words, I was wrong.  Since women in our society are lead to believe that they have to go through some sort of outside physical transformation to achieve an inner happiness, Kim points out through the essays in her book that it isn’t losing weight that is going to bring about the new you—that my dear, resides already within you.  It’s a choice.  But, it isn’t a self help book.  It’s one woman’s kick ass journey that is filled with charming wit and beautiful prose.

     Through the years, I’ve watched Kim on her journey to publication.  I hope that the irony of this situation of acquisition of that something outside of ourselves isn’t lost on Kim with the publication of this book.  Because, the minute she decided to be a writer, she was—published or not.  And I’m so proud of her. 

You too can buy a copy of Kim’s fantabulous book at any brick and mortar book seller or simply get it here

Read My Hips

Is a Picture Really Worth a Thousand Words?

So, I kinda feel bad that I pulled a little internet hoax on facebook.  I announced that I'd posted Osama Bin Laden's death pic on my blog.  Well, people (40, the last time I checked) clicked on the link to check it out.  I'm sure they were just humoring me because out of all places that the media and President Obama could pick to release that photo, my blog would probably not be their first choice.  It might even be their last choice of all possible choices.  Hmmmm, let's see.  Shall we go with CNN?  Fox?  That Maddow lady?  Or how about this death writer chick who doesn't get any traffic?  Shall we hand over the one thing that will make her a household name?  In my dreams.

But honestly, I don't want to see a pic of Osama Bin Laden with a bullet in his head, but I'm sure Donald Trump will.  He'll want an official death certificate.  I'm just going to take the President's word on it.  But, there's a lot of people out there who do want to see a pic.  Is it morbid curiousity?  Or is it about having evidence of his death?  I'm curious, but not that curious. 

Since Osama's death, I've been asked for my opinion on his "execution" since I'm not a supporter of the death penalty.  I didn't really want to talk about it.  In fact, I responded to one person who wanted to ruffle my feathers with a facebook status that was attributed to Martin Luther King.

Turns out, the quote was bogus.  But, I liked the sentiment of it. I didn't feel like jumping up and down and signing "ding dong the witch is dead."  It was a somber moment for me.  So many lives have been lost--the victims of 9/11 and all the brave men and women who died protecting and fighting for our country.  To me, it just didn't seem right.  I honestly don't believe that Osama Bin Laden's death is going to bring CLOSURE to any of the people who lost someone because of his actions.  Closure doesn't really exist.  

And you know what? That's all I'm going to say about that.
Post your thoughts or not.

Psych!

I was lying about that Osama death pic.  I just wanted to see my blog stats go really high.

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