Final Acts: Death, Dying, and the Choices We Make

End of days

312 VVVVVVVVVVV End of days MARGE PIERCY Almost always with cats, the end comes creeping over the two of you— she stops eating, his back legs no longer support him, she leans to your hand and purrs but cannot rise—sometimes a whimper of pain although they are stoic. They see death clearly through hooded eyes. Then there is the long weepy trip to the vet, the carrier no longer necessary, the last time in your lap. The injection is quick. Simply they stop breathing in your arms. You bring them home to bury in the flower garden, planting a bush over a deep grave. That is how I would like to cease, held in a lover’s arms and quickly fading to black like an old fashioned movie embrace. I hate the white silent scream of hospitals, the whine of pain like air conditioning’s hum. I want to click the off switch. And if I can no longer choose I want someone who loves me there, not a doctor with forty patients and his morality to keep me sort of, kind of alive or sort of undead. Why are we more rational and kinder to our pets than with ourselves or our parents? Death is not the worst thing; denying it can be. END OF DAYS 313 ...