Sunday's Snapshots: Lines in the sand

Watching my kiddos play in snow and on ice, I remember feeling immortal. The confidence of youth that I wouldn’t fall, that if I did fall, I’d survive unscathed, that I would live forever. Now, officially into middle age, I’m fully aware of how fragile I am, how it takes much less than a fall on ice to damage me, how I can simply wake up having slept wonky and be in tender pain all day. It all happened so slowly that it feels like it happened over-night, one minute fine the next minute fragile, and yet it’s very clearly been a slow deterioration.

I’ve been reading Dr. Atul Gawande’s book Being Mortal, in which he discusses how people are rarely clear about what they value in life, what they want, what makes life worth living. How it can take a major medical diagnosis like cancer before we have proper perspective over what’s important to us. How it can take a tragic accident before we realize we don’t really know what another person values. Our society puts so much emphasis on simply being alive for as long as possible, that we forget there’s more to living than breathing.

Before I had children, if I’d been asked if I wanted to be kept alive even if it meant being quadriplegic, I would have said “no, do not resuscitate.” Now, with children, and after having learned so much from Christopher Reeve’s life, I’d likely say “yes, keep me alive.” If I can still think and communicate, I want to be there as they grow up. My perspective on what’s important in my life has changed, nothing more. If my children were grown, my perspective would likely change again. But who can say?

For my husband, being quadriplegic would be a fate worse than death. He wouldn’t be able to handle being inside all day, his entire existence at the mercy of his caretaker(s), unable to tinker in the shop or hike with the dogs or get into snowball fights with his kids. It wouldn’t matter if he could still watch TV, if people read to him, if he had loads of visitors. My husband’s perspective is informed by motility, making his line in the sand clear.

For some people, it’s easy to say, “if I’m being kept alive by machines, pull the plug.” But what about the not so cut-and-dried possibilities? “I don’t want to be a vegetable” is not nearly as helpful as “if there’s no way for me to communicate clearly, I don’t want to live.” The line in the sand will be different for each person, informed by their perspective, and therefore also changing throughout their lifetime.

If you were involved in a tragic accident tomorrow, what is your minimum requirement for being kept alive? For one person in the book I’m reading, it’s that they want to be able to watch football and eat chocolate ice cream. That makes the line in the sand quite clear for those around you making the decisions: can’t see and can’t eat, let me go.

If someone outside yourself was responsible for your life today, would they know what you want? Have you been clear with your minimum requirement for a life well-lived? We put off these conversations thinking they're morbid or depressing, when really, they’re eye-opening for the loved one you’re sharing them with. We also rather foolishly believe we only need to have these conversations once, when our lives are ever evolving and therefore our lines in the sand are always shifting.

My line in the sand is clear: if I’m unable to think and communicate clearly, do not keep me alive. That line is informed by caring for multiple people with Alzheimer’s/Dementia and watching as they became other than themselves and then no one at all, fates they would likely have refused when they were of sound mind. I don’t care about being able to watch television or even read, if I can’t understand what you’re saying to me and you can’t understand what I’m saying to you, I’m no longer living but being kept alive.

What is your clear line in the sand? When was the last time you took stock of your life and what’s important to you? How has your line in the sand changed as you’ve gained clarity on your purpose, as children and grandchildren are added to your tree, as you’ve accomplished your goals and as they’ve evolved? Once you’re sure of your line, spend some time with someone you love and be sure they see your line and understand it.

Sunday Dutro is an internationally published writer living in Thompson Falls with her beautiful family. Reach her at [email protected].