We could adjourn at any moment without notice, regardless of the precautions we may have taken to extend our allotted time here.
At some point in the not so distant past (maybe a year ago, could be two or three, but certainly not five) I developed yet another phobia lite. Every day, when I’m in the shower, I think, “I’d rather not die in the shower, wet and naked. I hope, if I do, I don’t land on the drain and plug it up so there’s water everywhere when my poor husband finds my cold, blue, carcass.”
I hope I make it out of the shower alive. Really, I’d prefer to be dressed if I’m going somewhere. I’d rather not be remembered as old and naked.
It doesn’t stop there; oh no. In the living room I make a silent plea to the universe, “Please, I’d like to live until the new sofa comes so I can see what it looks like.”
I’m pretty sure that this isn’t what they mean when they talk about unfinished business. I’m lying there all hooked up to life support because not one of those incompetents, I hoped I could trust to pull the plug, can find their copy of the damn advance directive.
I am not dying; I am, in fact, hanging on to dear life. The nurse tells my family, “She seems to be waiting for something… .” Do you think any one of them will have the good sense to know it’s the couch? I want to see the damn sofa before I die!