What I think about when I think about the end of my life
A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr.
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Mother left no instructions about what to do with her modest estate. She had lived near my brother and his wife, so they had the unhappy job of deciding what to do with her possessions. They shipped me the two things I wanted — a beautiful chest and a marble-topped table, still my most cherished pieces of furniture.
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Those possessions aside, I am on a mission to deaccession. I am determined that my kids — one in Brazil, the other in Maryland — be able to concentrate on feeling sad when I die rather than having to figure out who gets what. So far, the only things I know what to do with are a shoebox full of family photos — one of my sons will surely want that — and my late husband Peter's doctoral thesis, requested by my grandson Leo, who just finished a logic course in college and asked for his grandfather's writing on that subject. (Oh, how I wish I could tell that to his grandfather!)
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But what do I do with all the rest? Even though I am proud of my son Seth's latest book, 'Rediscovering Travel,' I don't need three copies of it. And why did I have two dozen wine glasses? I haven't had 24 people in my apartment since Peter died almost four years ago. I donated all but eight to a nearby church thrift shop, where the volunteers are getting used to seeing me. There is more to come! I certainly no longer need 24 dinner plates, four loaf pans, or the 1.34 gallon jug of Windex left in my last apartment by its previous owner. And will I ever wear that scoop-necked sparkling black top that has been in my closet for decades?
The thrift shop volunteer ladies always ask me if I want to look around for bargains. My answer: 'Are you kidding?'
In addition to the trips to the charity shop, I have done some formal planning. I have a will. I look at it from time to time to make sure it still reflects my wishes, which include being cremated. We scattered half of Peter's ashes in a garden in front of the property in Berlin where he was born and the other half under a favorite tree near Deep Creek Lake in Maryland, where I hope my ashes will join his.
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I also filled out a 20-page document from Compassion and Choices, a nonprofit that 'works to improve patient autonomy and individual choice at the end of life.' That was painful work. Deciding which life-prolonging actions I would want to have under various circumstances was close to impossible. For example, if 'I have forgotten everything about my past, but still recognize those closest to me,' should I choose 'I want to live as long as possible' or 'Keep me comfortable while stopping all treatments and withholding food and water so that I can die peacefully'? Every time I checked a box, I worried that I might feel differently when the hypothetical became a reality.
That Compassion and Choices document (signed by me plus two witnesses) is at the front of a filing cabinet in a folder labeled End-of-Life Wishes. That folder also contains my Massachusetts Health Care Proxy, a Massachusetts Durable Power of Attorney, and a document I wrote and signed in 2015 that includes, among other things, a wish to have any of my usable organs donated.
In the meantime, I am living life to the fullest of my ability. I go to classes. I volunteer for causes I care about. I lift weights, and I walk two to four miles at least three times a week. A doctor told me recently that my healthy eating and exercising should allow me to live another 10 years, especially if I wear compression socks to ward off blood clots.
One of the hardest things about being old is watching friends die or suffer debilitating illnesses. But when I think about three of my close friends who died in their 40s, I realize how lucky I am to have had the rich, long life I have led, even after surviving breast cancer and living with a blood cancer for the past 15 years.
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But something will eventually get me, especially if I don't look both ways when crossing the one-way streets where bicycle lanes go both ways. And when the time comes, I will be ready.
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What I think about when I think about the end of my life
Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up Mother left no instructions about what to do with her modest estate. She had lived near my brother and his wife, so they had the unhappy job of deciding what to do with her possessions. They shipped me the two things I wanted — a beautiful chest and a marble-topped table, still my most cherished pieces of furniture. Advertisement Those possessions aside, I am on a mission to deaccession. I am determined that my kids — one in Brazil, the other in Maryland — be able to concentrate on feeling sad when I die rather than having to figure out who gets what. So far, the only things I know what to do with are a shoebox full of family photos — one of my sons will surely want that — and my late husband Peter's doctoral thesis, requested by my grandson Leo, who just finished a logic course in college and asked for his grandfather's writing on that subject. (Oh, how I wish I could tell that to his grandfather!) Advertisement But what do I do with all the rest? Even though I am proud of my son Seth's latest book, 'Rediscovering Travel,' I don't need three copies of it. And why did I have two dozen wine glasses? I haven't had 24 people in my apartment since Peter died almost four years ago. I donated all but eight to a nearby church thrift shop, where the volunteers are getting used to seeing me. There is more to come! I certainly no longer need 24 dinner plates, four loaf pans, or the 1.34 gallon jug of Windex left in my last apartment by its previous owner. And will I ever wear that scoop-necked sparkling black top that has been in my closet for decades? The thrift shop volunteer ladies always ask me if I want to look around for bargains. My answer: 'Are you kidding?' In addition to the trips to the charity shop, I have done some formal planning. I have a will. I look at it from time to time to make sure it still reflects my wishes, which include being cremated. We scattered half of Peter's ashes in a garden in front of the property in Berlin where he was born and the other half under a favorite tree near Deep Creek Lake in Maryland, where I hope my ashes will join his. Advertisement I also filled out a 20-page document from Compassion and Choices, a nonprofit that 'works to improve patient autonomy and individual choice at the end of life.' That was painful work. Deciding which life-prolonging actions I would want to have under various circumstances was close to impossible. For example, if 'I have forgotten everything about my past, but still recognize those closest to me,' should I choose 'I want to live as long as possible' or 'Keep me comfortable while stopping all treatments and withholding food and water so that I can die peacefully'? Every time I checked a box, I worried that I might feel differently when the hypothetical became a reality. That Compassion and Choices document (signed by me plus two witnesses) is at the front of a filing cabinet in a folder labeled End-of-Life Wishes. That folder also contains my Massachusetts Health Care Proxy, a Massachusetts Durable Power of Attorney, and a document I wrote and signed in 2015 that includes, among other things, a wish to have any of my usable organs donated. In the meantime, I am living life to the fullest of my ability. I go to classes. I volunteer for causes I care about. I lift weights, and I walk two to four miles at least three times a week. A doctor told me recently that my healthy eating and exercising should allow me to live another 10 years, especially if I wear compression socks to ward off blood clots. One of the hardest things about being old is watching friends die or suffer debilitating illnesses. But when I think about three of my close friends who died in their 40s, I realize how lucky I am to have had the rich, long life I have led, even after surviving breast cancer and living with a blood cancer for the past 15 years. Advertisement But something will eventually get me, especially if I don't look both ways when crossing the one-way streets where bicycle lanes go both ways. And when the time comes, I will be ready.
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