They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
The last argument my ex-boyfriend and I had was over assisted suicide. It’s an easy argument for the sanctimonious to feel that they’ve won — suicide is a sin. End of story.
It’s a little more nuanced for someone living the nightmare I’m presently enduring.
My mom is just conscious enough to know that she’s dying and to be miserable, trapped in a bed with time oozing by like molasses.
She’s thirsty, but she can’t swallow. There’s nothing I can do but wet her lips and sooth her by combing her hair. I asked the hospice aide how long people can survive like this and she said, “You’d be surprised.”
The aide only comes twice a week, so the remainder of my mom’s time is spent being neglected by nursing home staff because no one wants to work here and because COVID is rampant. She has horrible diaper rash and only gets changed twice a day.
It’s supposed to be every two hours.
We put animals to sleep because we love them and don’t want them to suffer. But we regularly allow humans to suffer horrible, agonizing deaths, without access to even basic daily care because of the insane cost and dysfunction of healthcare in America.
My ex didn’t spend 8–10–12 hours a day with his dying mother, so he can keep his fucking opinions to…
