NPR said, “Have those conversations now. Say what you need to say.”
My Letter, In Case I Don’t Make It
I’m not sick. I’m healthy and I mean to stay that way.
I am sixty-five. In our family configuration, I’m the only logical one who can do the errands for my 94-year-old mother-in-law with dementia and my wife who has rheumatoid arthritis.
Don’t worry. I’m careful. We all are.
We have gloves and masks and hand sanitizer and Lysol and bleach. We wash our hands often, wipe down the doorknobs and faucets, keep the counters spotless. Every time we go out and come back in, I come in through the basement (where there’s a washing machine and another bathroom), I strip and put my clothes and my sneakers in the wash immediately, shower, and put on the clean set of clothes I’d preset before I left.
Still, being careful is no guarantee. It’s just smarter than being cavalier.
The nature of this disease is that if you succumb, 1) it will happen very fast, and 2) you are going to die alone. The fear and the physical toll (according to accounts shared by those who have witnessed it) would no doubt overwhelm any ability you might have to tell your loved ones…
