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Show 363 I shake my head. Every time I come into the hospital, I am asked that question and I always shake my head at the irony. If I had wanted to die, I would have just stayed home. "Maybe you should write one that says you want to live," Faith is suggesting, getting ready to leave. I am staring at the posters tacked onto my wall, given to me by one ofthe nurses. Purple lupine in a Rocky Mountain meadow on one. An eagle soaring over a forested wilderness canyon on the other. I mentally step into the lupine pasture and sink onto my knees, inhaling fresh mountain ah. A vacation. A break. A moment away from this disease. Would to God this moment could last a season. The hospital social worker is coming through my door and I am biting my lip. Maybe she will not write it for me. I cannot write it for myself because my cramped hands would only scribble illegibly. But maybe she is not allowed to write such things even for someone who cannot write. "I want to write a living will that says I want to live," I am saying. |