My mother and I stood in a dark hospital room next to the prostrate and still form of my stepfather. A respirator–breathing for him–rasped and beeped urgently and alarmingly at seemingly random intervals.  A small computer monitor next to the hospital bed provided a constant yellow and black readout of my stepfather’s level of consciousness–the numbers range from 0 to 100, 100 being conscious.  His number was in the 30s. This would not be a problem if he had been sedated, but it had been a week since they had turned off the medication and he wasn’t waking up.  It had been more than a week since his heart surgery and the development of pneumonia cascading into multiple organ failure, landing him in the ICU with tubes snaking out from every possible angle, tubes keeping him alive.

A puppy aged but sincere neurologist explained that he had performed a brain wave scan and it may show irreversible brain damage.  He was compassionate, eloquent, and not definitive, but what he said boiled down to this: If he doesn’t wake up in two days he is a vegetable.

 
After that, we left, and started talking about memorial arrangements and the bizarre logistics that come with death.  Memorize how to spell the word “mortuary” because someday, you may have to look it up in the yellow pages after your brain has been totally scrambled by momentous loss, but decisions still have to be made.

 
The next morning, my stepfather woke up and asked for a glass of water. One week later, he asked for a strawberry Blizzard and if my mom had paid the insurance bill.  Things are still dicey and his recovery is slow, but this experience has convinced me to add an addendum to my living will: After you’re sure I’m brain dead, wait a week.