This is the first weekend since my father, Bill, died where I did not find myself planning to go see him after a morning hike with good friends. I realized how much I’ve learned from him and my recently departed mother-in-law Lydia in the past few years. 

For decades, I’ve proudly told others that my father taught me how to dig a ditch properly. 

You don’t want to get a shovel full of dirt and lose half of it, only to lift it again. There is a proper technique. He also taught me that it okay, even laudable, to rest in the shade on a very hot day toiling in the field. It’s not being lazy. It’s smart, healthy, and a good example to set. 

Both Bill and Lydia died from Alzheimer’s Disease. It runs in my family so I assume it’s my most likely cause of natural death. I’m not exactly obsessed about it – at least I wouldn’t call it obsession – but I have considered my options at finding the shortest path between diagnosis (of AD) and death. I’ve made it clear I would prefer to die of the very next illness after AD is diagnosed. Why? I don’t want to spend a decade needing assistance only to curl up and die in bed. I don’t want to inflict a burden of effort – emotional or otherwise – on others. I don’t want to spend anyone’s healthcare dollars or resources if I have AD. I believe it’s fine ethically, spiritually, and rationally to take my position on this. 

Bill and Lydia shed some light on this for me. 

Lydia had expressed a clear and consistent wish to die for years, more so after she was snatched from the jaws of death a few years ago when a well-meaning neighbor saw her collapse in the yard, called 911, and whisked her away to the ER to be “saved”. She was NOT PLEASED! She had already made her wishes made, AND she was taken away from a gloriously peaceful place she experienced as others struggled to bring her back. 

More recently, in the same breath, she would tell us “I just want to die, and I’m ready. I hurt and I can’t think straight,” on the one hand, while on the other hand say “I love my life. I enjoy this place and the people are so nice. I’m so happy to see Sandy every time she’s here. She is so good to me.” 

How could that be? 

I believe they were both true, both clear-headed, and both rational.  Yes, life carried a large burden of pain and suffering that would not improve. Yes, the time she spent with those who loved her was full of joy. But the burden was outweighing the joy. 

Bill, on the other hand, had slowly faded cognitively so that he no longer recognized any of us. We could tell he enjoyed eating. He might take your food if you didn’t watch out. He smiled when others treated him with kindness and respect, which seemed like always to both of us. So I’d categorize him as pleasantly demented – maybe even happily demented. Would someone who is pleasantly demented want to die? I would. I’ve considered the burden on loved ones and on society, and my choice would be to lighten those burdens even if was happy or happily oblivious in the face of AD. 

Some day, my family and my physicians will be considering my wishes. 

I’ve expressed them here. I don’t expect them to change. I’ve considered them in light of what I’ve learned from these wise parents, who taught me so much.