My brother and I suffer from some rather volatile tempers, today we were talking about his beat to crap steering wheel (he takes his driving aggression out on it–it’s frayed to shreds, exposing the wires underneath), and we got to talking about the inanimate objects we have both destroyed in our not so illustrious temper history.  Here’s a list neither of us are proud of: 

The History of Objects destroyed by Lowe Family Anger Management 

My brother: 

-His steering wheel

-His PDA 

-”Numerous” printers (PC Load Letter, WTF?????-smash, smash) 

-Several keyboards–one smashed so completely he found keys scattered around the house months later.

Me:-A dishwasher door (my brother and I lived together at the time, I got really pissed off and slammed the dishwasher door down, breaking it.  When he came home, he asked how it got broken and I said, “I couldn’t open a bottle of Italian dressing” to which he replied, “Oh, OK”–because of course, it made sense to him.  -A window in my college apartment.  My college apartment had my bedroom window facing the interior courtyard and one night before a big test my neighbors were outside being really loud at 1 a.m. so I threw my textbook at the window, cracking it in half.  -The roof of another apartment. Upstairs neighbors making tons of noise, I got pissed off, looked for something to hit roof with (passed up hammer because thought “no, that will leave a mark”).  Picked up broom and shoved the handle into the ceiling, which predictably, sunk into the drywall about 6 inches leaving a large hole I had to pay to fix. 

Now, it’s only inanimate objects that draw our ire, both of us are well adjusted enough to never direct our physical anger at a person. As I’ve gotten older I have mellowed some.  I never act out that way in front of my daughter because I don’t want her to do it, and I know it’s stupid, but I also know it’s always there–simmering in my DNA.    

I am obsessed with NPR (National Public Radio).  Not too long ago I heard this hilarious Talk of the Nation show about a book, and a stage show, dedicated to truly awful teen writing.  Today I was rummaging around in my basement and came across what I consider to be my finest example of this genre and here it is for your reading displeasure:

I brought him there to see

When you think of living wills–if you think of them at all–under what scenario do you envision them being needed?  Terri Shaivo, right?  Brain Death. Vegetable. Living wills are often structured around “If there is no hope of my recovery, or “If I have an incurable disease”, or “If I’m brain dead”, but what if your mind is fine and it’s your lungs that don’t work, and most likely won’t ever work?  What if there is a chance of you recovering, but the chance is extremely slim and if you survived you would mostly likely spend the rest of your so-called life on a ventilator flat on your back in a nursing home?  A Living Will cannot cover every scenario–and even if it covers a laundry list of what ifs, it will most likely be ignored by medical professionals anyway, because of America’s prevalent culture of “we must do everything even if they don’t want it so I don’t get my ass sued later” 

The medical profession in this country is poorly (if at all) trained to deal with end-of-life issues, specifically not only the potential for quality of life, but quality of death; as I’ve recently learned during the horrific 9 weeks my stepfather was in the Intensive Care Unit of an Arizona hospital, and from reading a most helpful book: Last Rights: Rescuing the end of life from the medical system by Stephen P. Kiernan.

The only reason my stepfather’s living will wasn’t ignored–and it would have been–is that he had the foresight to appoint my mother his medical power of attorney. If he had not done that–if there was no one there to fight for his right to die pain free, with peace, and with dignity–one of his doctors would have kept him “alive” until he died after much suffering, or survived to spend the rest of his life in a state he would never, ever want.  According to a study cited in Last Rights, conflicts between doctors and families in ICUs are extremely common, and that was certainly our experience, although only with one doctor.  This doctor who, for whatever reason–personal, religious, don’t sue my ass–refused to be realistic with my family, insisting that there was a chance my stepfather could recover, making my mother feel like she was killing her husband by not grasping for a 1 in a million chance that my 76 year old stepfather might be half the person he was.

To be fair to this hospital, the nurses were all outstanding, every one of them was honest, realistic, and direct with my family.  When asked about the one doctor they all said “yeah, he never, ever gives up”.  While not giving up may be viewed as a virtue by a medical training system only seeing things in terms of black and white, failure or success, life or death, in practice doctors should be trained to consider the odds.  Sure a patient could recover, people do; I could also win the lottery, people do: but the odds are 300 million to 1. 

Seven years ago an aneurysm in my father’s brain ruptured, causing total brain death within a matter of minutes.  At the time, I didn’t consider that lucky or fortunate for him or my brother and me. Last Sunday my stepfather died.  Death is never easy, but I’ve learned some deaths are considerably better than others.  More on this later, I’m too fried and sad.

 

 

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.