Author: admin

Last summer when I was admitted to the hospital with the Norovirus, one of the questions a nurse asked was, “Do you want to be resuscitated?”

I replied, “No.” One of the plastic bracelets she snapped around my wrist bore the letters DNR. I didn’t feel like I had a life threatening illness but I was in Intensive Care. When my husband was allowed into my room, I told him about my decision.

His first response was, “You can’t mean that.”

We talked it over. Twenty-five years ago, we’d filled out various end of life papers including compliance with Illinois’s Living Will Act that we didn’t want heroic measures to keep us alive. Decisions in the abstract are easy but when it comes down to possibly happening , it’s different. I don’t have a death wish as long as I continue to enjoy my roles as wife, mother, grandmother and writer. I’m in good health but I have been living with one lung since 1980. We had friends that were subjected to fruitless, extreme measures for bodies that were worn out and they died anyway. Neither of us wanted that.

From the time I was a little child reciting the prayer, “If I should die before I wake…” to my DNR bracelet, I’ve known I would die someday, but I always emphasized ‘someday’. When our oldest daughter was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer, my husband and I faced the reality that it’s not a question of if but when death would arrive.

Have you thought about your wishes and filled filled out the necessary papers to comply?

I was a young wife with three little kids and we’d just moved to town. My three-year-old son was sitting on my lap during a meeting of neighborhood church women in our living room. He asked, “Mommy, what’s that red stuff on that lady’s face?”

I ignored his question, which was the wrong thing to do. He repeated himself a little louder. I was sure everyone in the room heard him, but pretended not to.

I murmured in his ear, “Shh. That’s just make-up.”

Mrs. Sweet, the spry grandmother who lived across the street from us, dipped generously from the rouge pot when she applied make-up. She was an attractive lady with only a few strands of gray in her black hair although I knew she had to be in her sixties.

Mrs. Waller, who lived two houses down the street from us, was one of a group of three widows I saw at community events. I always noticed the petite, gray-haired woman who stood as straight as a soldier when the sergeant barked, “Attention.”

I never knew those two women well but, now that I’ve entered their age range, I think of them nearly every day. When I’m applying make-up, I still hear my little boy’s voice and go easy on the blush. When I stand up, I remind myself, shoulders back.

Every day, each of us may serve as someone’s example. Will it be what to do or what not to do?

I was a young wife with three little kids and we’d just moved to town. My three-year-old son was sitting on my lap during a meeting of neighborhood church women in our living room. He asked, “Mommy, what’s that red stuff on that lady’s face?”

I ignored his question, which was the wrong thing to do. He repeated himself a little louder. I was sure everyone in the room heard him, but pretended not ot.

I murmured in his ear, “Shh. That’s just make-up.”

Mrs. Sweet, the spry grandmother who lived across the street from us, dipped generously from the rouge pot when she applied make-up. She was an attractive lady with only a few strands of gray in her black hair although I knew she had to be in her sixties.

Mrs. Waller, who lived two houses down the street from us, was one of a group of three widows I saw at community events. I always noticed the petite, gray-haired woman who stood as straight as a soldier when the sergeant barked, “Attention.”

I never knew those two women well but, now that I’ve entered their age range, I think of them nearly every day. When I’m applying make-up, I still hear my little boy’s voice and go easy on the blush. When I stand up, I remind myself, shoulders back.

Every day, each of us may serve as someone’s example. Will it what to do or what not to do?

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