I asked Brian Devine tonight if he had a living will. All Brian knows is that he doesn't want to be buried or cremated. He would like his body placed in the wood to be eaten by animals.
Not me. I want to be cremated. And this is my living will.
Keep me alive. I don't care what some God-complex doctor tells you. I'll snap out of it.
I recently watched an episode of House in which Mos Def plays a patient in a bicycle accident who appears brain dead and doctors want to unplug him. But he's not brain dead. He could hear everything. And eventually, they fixed him and it was all because of rat pee. Anyone with plug-pulling power over me needs to watch this House and realize that I CAN HEAR YOU!
So mortgage the house, lobby congress and hook me up to a feeding tube. I don't care what it takes. I want to live at any and all cost.
Even though the doctors will tell you I'm brain dead and show you Terry Schaivo-esque x-rays of my empty cranium, don't listen. Trust me. I'm in there. Which is why my inner circle will need to stay by my bedside night and day talking to me and stimulating my brainwaves. Brian's already called Wednesdays. I would like to be visited by a stream of frenemies as Brian, Melissa and Zoe stroke my hands.
"Go ahead. She can hear you." They'll say. "How sweet of you to come. And what flowers! Beth just loves hydrangeas." As as my frenemies leave to knowing looks from the inner circle, Brian will lean forward and whisper in my ear, "Can you believe that bitch showed her face in here?"
"Really!" Melissa will shake her head. "The gall."
Zoe would stand to adjust the curtain in my private room, an addition from Restoration Hardware. "She talked about you like you were dead. Idiot."
I'd hardly stir, but inside I'd be fuming. I liked hydrangeas in like, 1999. Please.
Hastings can come on Mondays to read aloud and Eve can post snarky updates from my private hospice room. Brock will bring me trashy woman-drama DVD's and watch them with me, dabbing my tearless eyes at tearful moments. My mother and father will be fixtures at fabulous fundraising events for my care, giving moving speeches on how my right eyelid twitched last month. My brother will keep an air mattress nearby for the occasional sleepover and irreverently try and rouse me by holding a martini beneath my nose.
And then one day, for no reason in particular, perhaps just because I felt I wasn't getting enough attention, I'd flutter my eyes open, turn my head, look up at Brian and say, "My God, you're grey!"
He'd look at me in awe. "Did you just say something, Beth?"
"Goddamnit, you queen. Get me out of this shitty gown and into a caftan for crying out loud."
He'd run the halls screaming for everyone to come quick and I'd be an international star, like a slutty Susan Boyle. Cue credits!
So, just to recap, don't pull the plug. No matter what they say, no matter how dreadful the prognosis, I don't care if an axe is halfway through my head. Find a heartbeat and hook my ass up...
(Is this over yet? I hope not. Nominate me! I could die.)