'Cuz I Want it That Way

In answer to your questions:

Yes. I did just quote a Backstreet Boys song.
Yes. It is on my iPod.
Yes. I put it there on purpose.
Yes. I do like it. A lot.
So there.

I am cheesy. I am proud.

I just wrote a very long, intended to be artful, sensitive and informative e-mail to my father and my siblings that use e-mail. Felt compelled based by what I felt was the watershed moment of the whoring out of Terri Schiavo's pain by just about everybody (as an insightful LA Times editorial made clear today, even in death she won't be allowed to rest, her memory peddled to the highest bidder looking for lists of folks to call for contributions to conservative causes) - from the Republican right, the indefatigable red-staters, the people looking for media attention wherever they can get it, and ultimately, her own family, who could never comprehend the idea that they saw only what they wanted to see, and that the daughter and sister they once knew and loved abandoned them over a decade ago. They couldn't see past the understandable absorption and selfishness of their own pain and let the shell of her that remained to go free. I would never want this to happen to me. I wouldn't want to be anyone's accidental martyr, the symbol they take up to expose and exploit for their own purposes - whether it be by strangers with at-best careless regard for my humanity, or by loved one's blinded by love and pain making ill-advised choices in an effort to stem the tide of the rush of uncontrollable emotions.

I like vegetables. I do not want to be one. Should I end up in a persistent vegitative state - the consciousness that is me having assuredly been eviscerated - I do not want heroic measures. I do not want to be kept alive on a ventilator. I do not want to be kept alive on a feeding tube. I want to die with dignity. I want my organs and any other body party which are serviceable to be harvested and apportioned out to as many people as possible. I won't need them wherever I am going. I admit, I would not want to be an anatomy class cadaver or a cadaver farm resident, so once they take what they need from me, they should sew me back up and prepare me for cremation. And then that's it. Hopefully, my loved ones can find a nice pleasant place to sprinkle me. A place where they can return and be happy and think about the me that I was, the me that they loved. The me that was present. Not a vegetable me. I guess I should also note for the records, that at my wake, there better be a kickin' iTunes playlist going, with Backstreet Boys and G 'n R and Metallica and Beyonece and Lynrd Skynrd and Nelly and Garth Brooks and Edith Piaf and Moby and Britney and ODB and all the other good stuff (so clearly it has to be as weird and random as the person it is commemorating) and there needs to be a keg, a martini bar, and lots of laughing. I expect everyone to have really good stories about me. And everyone will have to wear the nicest shoes they own to the occasion (so hopefully it won't be anywhere muddy or outside).

But I am getting ahead of myself. I really just wanted that stuff out there because Terri Schiavo was 25 when she had her stroke or whatever it was that caused her unfortunate condition. No one really knew her wishes because, come on, she was 25 - who thought anything would or could ever happen to her. Things can happen. Better to be prepared and be clear.

But you see, I worried over whether to send the e-mail. Still a little worried about it now. Because I know, I know, I know they are going to freak out. Because no one likes it when I talk about death. Not even in a pragmatic, "because this is the circle of life, so let's just be open and prepared about it" kind of way. My mother has long been about 2 milleseconds away from sticking her fingers in her ears when I tell her that I want my organs donated when I die. I have been saying so since I turned sixteen and I stuck that little pink dot from my donor card on my drivers license. I never wanted any mistake about it. I want to be helpful and unselfish when I can, even if it is, literally, the last thing I do. It would give me solace. I would hope that it would give my family solace too. And it may - but for now such discussions, as well as today's e-mail are likely to set off panic buttons and alarm bells around the country.

You see - what they never want to say, but which I know they are all thinking, is that they are afraid that I am mentioning such a thing because I know something. And no, this is not their sudden faith in long dormant psychic abilities of mine which are going to allow me to predict my own demise. They believe, as apparently my last ex- did, that I am always a frayed nerve and step or two away from walking off the edge of a building and voluntarily crossing that great divide. Okay, euphemisms aside, I think they think I could be suicidal. Scary even to write.

Must pause after that one.

Okay. So let's get something straight. I am not, nor have I ever been suicidal. No ideation of the great beyond for me. Depressed? Scared? Bemoaning the weight of the slings and arrows of life at every turn? A sad sack with hysterical tendencies? An anxiety ridden jangle of nerves? Yes, yes, yes, a million times yes. But suicidal? Never. Not for a moment. Why? Because I hate death. It frightens me. I also really, really, really dislike blood. Especially mine. Seeing it makes me woozy. Physical pain - no so much a fan of that either. Ouch. Knives, guns, pills. Oooh - no! And, in the end, as much as I complain and lament (read: bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch) I am a an absolute sucker for hope. I truly do believe, and always have, that tomorrow is a new day. Now it is a rare occasion that you will hear me say anything so chirpy - to myself or to anyone else. But in terms of my metaphysical default-temperature settings, I am set at least to "curious" if not outright "sunny and forward-looking." I want to see how this life turns out. I couldn't have predicted the twists and turns it has taken thus far, and I don't believe I have even gotten to the good parts yet. At least that is what I hope. And because I do, I couldn't just bow out now - no matter how much I feel like an open wound. Nothing ever stays the same. Frustrates me to no end, and yet it saves me every time. As abominable as I may feel, I know I won't always feel this way. I will feel this way again someday, but there will be a point of time in between, if only for a moment, that I won't. And that is worth it.

Not a quitter. Just not.

So given that, I think I am entitled and allowed to speak about death and the plans and arrangements I would like made in the event of my untimely passing without people having apoplectic fits (which they try to hide from me because they don't want me to think that they think I am a hari kari incident waiting to happen. Suckers. They are about as subtle as I am.)

I am a psychological and metaphysical mess, but I am here to stay. Everyone is stuck with me. Now I am not sure if, in the end, that is really a comfort (be careful what you wish for guys! :)), but it's true.