Posted in culture, history, music

The Eagle Flies Alone, and what does Armageddon mean today?

Sorry I can’t write out the lyrics.  Kruschshev must’ve really made an impression on Tony Carey as a kid, he’s always referencing the shoe-pounding incident.  I don’t know if I’ve ever shared my collection of Cold War songs in its entirety or not, but this is one of them.  (The vast majority are by this artist, he did a lot of Cold War inspired work both under his name Tony Carey and his sci-fi/historical dystopian band name Planet P Project which was basically just him with a synth and a lot of time on his hands.)

I find it interesting to hear the perspectives of different people who were there, writing songs about the Cold War during or shortly after the Cold War.  I’m at the tail end of the Cold War generations (I’m about as young as you can get and still have understood what was going on enough to absorb the historical context despite some massive comprehension problems on my part) and this guy is from close to the other end so it kind of bookends things for me.

To me, the end of the world is nuclear war.

Like.  Those two things mean the same thing

It’s taken me time to realize there are other ends.

It’s taken me even longer to realize the end of the world is not the end of the world.

It’s taken me even longer to convince anyone that nuclear war never stopped being a threat.  I never understood why everyone was so fast to think we were safe when the Cold War ended.

Like.  No.  Really.  I knew those nukes didn’t just vanish.  I knew the technology didn’t just vanish.  I knew the nature of modern human cultures didn’t just just vanish.  I was a kid but I wasn’t that oblivious to the world.

I wonder what Armageddon today’s kids are inheriting.

Understand I didn’t first hear Armageddon in a religious context.  It was another word for nuclear war.  I had no idea it was a religious metaphor or what religion it came from.

So I wonder what Armageddon means to today’s kids.

Does it mean this?

They were beginning to tell us stories like the above when I was a kid, but it was harder to grasp or believe.  Especially since I associated environmentalism with upper-middle-class and rich snobs trying to one-up each other’s status symbols.  So I had an aversion to taking them seriously.

This last song, I take as a call to action, to say, “This will happen if we don’t do something now.

But a friend warned me that the tone of the song can also signal despair, and stop people from hoping, and stop people from believing they have any obligation to carry on even in the face of loss of hope.

And I can see that.

So I’d remind people that the fact that each of us individually will die does not absolve us of our responsibilities while we are still alive, it only underscores them.  Because there will always be those who come after us.

And I’d remind people that the same is true of us as a species.

It still matters what we do for each other right now, because each of us matters right now.

It still matters what we leave for the next generation, and how hard or easy we make something that will never be easy.

It still matters, even in the event of extinction, what we leave for other life that may come after us.

It still matters what we do now.  Because everything now matters.

It still matters what we do for the future.  Because the future is not just any one of us, and it is not just all of us, it is a whole world, a whole universe, it is things we can’t understand or anticipate, and what we do has an effect and matters to all of that.

It matters because we are all on Julian of Norwich’s hazelnut together — this one tiny fragile nut that we have to take care of because it’s all we’ve got.  And if you think she lived a long time ago in simpler times, a reminder she lived during the frigging Plague in Europe, which sure looked like the end of the world at the time.

And just as death was considered a marker of social equality back in those days, another song from my Cold War collection references nuclear war just before saying “Ashes and diamond, foe and friend, we were all equal in the end.”

Wow I’m cheery today.

A Slovenian Danse Macabre mural

I actually love the symbolism of the Danse Macabre, though.  For real.  It says that death is the one thing that happens to every one of us, that makes us all equal.  It’s an art form depicting dead people dancing together, from all walks of life.  The Plague got people thinking that way.  That’s bleak optimism for you.

Ashes and diamond Foe and friend We were all equal in the end Pink Floyd, “Two Suns in the Sunset”

As far as I knew, growing up, the world ended with a flash.  The only difference you got was whether you were at the center of the flash and died quickly, or a further distance away and died slowly.  On 9/11, I was sure from FBI chatter (and lack of communication device) that I was headed towards the center of the flash.  I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t afraid.  I’d been ready for it my whole life.  It only took minutes to adjust to the “okay it’s finally happened, no time to feel bad about it” mentality.

It took a lot longer to adjust to the reality of what’d actually happened.  But I was baffled by all the people saying “We’re not safe anymore.”  Safe?  Since when were we safe?  Did everyone forget so fast?  And honestly what happened for real was a lot less bad than what I imagined when I heard the snippets like “Plane headed for the Pentagon” and “We think downtown San Jose will be a target, we need to shut down San Jose” and people standing on street corners waving newspapers with “ATTACK ON AMERICA” in giant letters.

I mean — there was no context for planes flying into buildings, and anyone old enough to be reared on Cold War propaganda and unable to get access to the real news was gonna come to one conclusion.  My dad was coming out of an isolated part of the Sierra Nevadas and came to the same exact conclusion when the planes stopped flying over (he memorized plane routes and used them to help orient to both time and locations) and he could only get patriotic music on the radio.

And now we’re facing so many different ends.

And yet none of the ends are ends, if we look beyond ourselves, just as our own end isn’t the end, if we look beyond our own personal death.  And even what looks like the end of the species may be survivable for small tiny numbers of scattered people.  But end of person, end of most of our species, end of our entire species, end of many species, whatever it ends up being — we still have a responsibility right now.  To everyone who still exists, to everyone who will exist, to everyone within our species, to everyone beyond our species.  We have a responsibility.  That never goes away.

As for despair, this is worth keeping in mind:

It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not. Gandalf the Grey, J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

I know I’ve said all this before.  But some things are worth repeating.  And the memory of the Cold War seems worth keeping alive.  Different eras in history shape not just big forces in the world, but also the lives and beliefs and perspectives of small people everywhere.  And those lives and beliefs and perspectives and memories are, each one of them, vitally important.  They are what history is really made of — each one of us, not a single one invisible — and why history matters.

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Posted in Death & Mortality Series, quotes

Feminists and disability activists and Deathlings, oh my.

This post is part of my Death & Mortality Series.  Please read my introduction to my Death & Mortality series if you can, to understand the context I write this in.  Thank you.

Bolded for my own emphasis.

“She draws on an old and familiar series of clichés: disability as dependence, disability as innate limitation, disability as political voicelessness. She comes at disability through feminism and commits the traditional feminist errors about disability, rather than reaching for the vitality that a fully realized interaction between feminists and those concerned with disability can offer.”

-Cal Montgomery, Critic of the Dawn

How I feel about most Deathlings whenever they even hint at discussing disability or at trusting and using systems and practices that tend to kill us a lot.  Which is disturbingly often.  Yet…

Spoiler: I’m a closet Deathling (well I guess not closet anymore), and an actual member of the Order of the Good Death.  But one reaching for connections between death acceptance and disability rights that compromise absolutely nothing of the safety of disabled people, and that come at things from what to many people are probably wholly unexpected angles.  Stay tuned for more on that, I’ve been writing a post ever since someone asked me about it.  It’s complicated and hard to write the bullet points.

And that thing about what a fully realized interaction could offer… I only wish, with Deathlings and disability rights.  I haven’t even seen it tried yet.  I’m trying singlehandedly a little with parts of this mortality series, I’m sure others are out there doing the same mostly in isolation.  I think the irrational fear of death and the irrational fear of disability are deeply intertwined and equally destructive, among many other angles I wish people would try and look at things from for at least a moment.  And I’d love to hear discussions of The Good Death that involve an extreme acceptance of disability to the very end instead of using death to try and get around disability because you fear disability so much.  Because nobody ever talks about that choice, and fear of loss of control over your body and mind and many other things disability represents to people feels so obviously connected to fear of death and decay and the like, yet they usually aren’t making that connection…

And there’s always one more quote in “Critic of the Dawn” that requires a tenth, eleventh, twelfth, fiftieth look… I was one of the test-readers for that piece (a task I was wholly inadequate to, especially at that age) and I still find new things in it every time I read it.

And yes, I believe it’s possible to be both a member of The Order of the Good Death and Not Dead Yet, if you wanted to be.  And I wish more people were informed by the best of both mindsets.  (I know there’s problems with NDY but I’m using them more as a placeholder for a mindset, than a recommendation of membership.)  And I’m gonna be out there trying, always.  I know the dangers disabled people face firsthand, so I’m never gonna forget where deadly forms of ableism are showing up even if the people doing them can’t see them.

And I also think facing one’s own mortality and the place of death in the scheme of things is an incredibly important thing to be doing, disabled or not.  Hence being an avid but mostly closet Deathling.  (Mostly closet because I don’t know how to explain the drastic misgivings of a disabled person and it’s exhausting to try.)

In the meantime my memento mori / memento vivere (reminder that you will die / reminder to live, loosely translated) ring.  I got it recently as a reminder of everything I’ve been through lately, and the closeness of Death at all times, and what that means for the living.

A big but elegant costume jewelry type ring showing a cameo death's head with an elaborate hairdo and a frilly border. Next to a handmade ring that's silver with a cluster of seven turquoises.
A big but elegant costume jewelry type ring showing a cameo death’s head with an elaborate hairdo and a frilly border. Next to a handmade ring that’s silver with a cluster of seven turquoises. The death’s head is meant as a reminder of both mortality and embracing life while it’s still around to embrace. (Memento mori / memento vivere.)

Posted in Death & Mortality Series, Developmental disability service system

When powerful people don’t care if you live or die…

umbridgewithteajpg
Dolores Umbridge might be the ultimate representation of Nice Lady Therapists at their utter worst…

This post is part of my Death & Mortality Series.  Please read my introduction to my Death & Mortality series if you can, to understand the context I write this in.  Thank you.

Not all of my thoughts on death and mortality are purely personal.  Although this is certainly born out by personal experience, this is much more in the ethical/political realm than my personal relationships with Death itself.  And is just as important to the whole picture of how I approach death and mortality, and one reason I’ve been so reluctant to post my actual experiences of Death being a benevolent and friendly force.

If you are disabled.  If you are cognitively disabled.  If you are developmentally disabled.  There are people who literally do not care one way or the other if you live or die.  And there are people who actually kind of wish you’d die — some more fervently than others.  And there are people in positions of power who will either fail to act in ways they would normally act, or actively push things a little more in the direction of your death (sometimes obviously, sometimes more passively with plausible deniability).  And to be unaware of this is to be unaware of serious danger.

These people can work in the medical profession.  Many do.

These people can work in agencies that are supposed to give you support.  Many do.

These people can work in any major position of power over you.  Many do.

And I’m not talking about serial killers, although they take full advantage of some of these situations in all kinds of ways.  I’m talking about people who mostly think of themselves as kind of normal.

But they can still kill you with apathy, indifference, and even varying degrees of malice.

My developmental disability agency just announced to me last night things that confirmed the warnings I had been receiving from friends that this kind of thing was at work right now.  They want me suddenly doing things I have never been able to do even at my physically healthiest (and they have ample documentation of my inability to do these things), things they have been doing for me for thirteen years without incident until my DPA filed a medical neglect complaint against them.

This is part of an attempt to railroad me into a service model (which requires moving out of my own home and would not get me any better care) that they prefer for me.

This is part of retaliation for filing the complaint, before which there was no talk of railroading me into this service model.

But they know.  Perfectly well.  That I was struggling to stay alive and stay out of the hospital with the amount of services I was getting.  (I have had recent unexpected cascade-effect complications from a surgery and have been going alkalotic at the drop of a hat.  Long story.  But it’s taken everything I have and every skill I have to stay out of the hospital and alive as long as I have, and I’ve been back in the hospital since Friday.)  And they knew that the reduction in services caused by a staff vacation/staff shortage contributed to my ending back up in the hospital.  They knew all this.

Then they sent me a letter saying I am no longer entitled to have anything done for me, that I must physically participate in everything.

They know, in detail, that this is not possible for me.  They know, in detail, that this would be dangerous for me on multiple levels even without a severe, acute health crisis.  They have documentation of every single reason in more detail than they probably care to know, that even moving my body through the motions is physically dangerous to me.

They know these things.

So the only conclusion I can reach when they insist that these things happen anyway, is that whether I live or die doesn’t matter to them.

The fun part is if I do die, I’m sick enough they’ll probably get away with it even if they’re very culpable in the events leading to it.

But my friends have been telling me I might not live out the year the way this agency has been treating me, when I probably would otherwise.

When I say I accept death, it does not mean I accept THIS.  This isn’t death that just happens.  This is some toxic combination of apathy and malice, and the worst part is I don’t know precisely where it’s coming from.  But people have warned me about it just before this happened.  And when I spoke to medical professionals about it, they told me this kind of thing is very real and something to always keep in mind.

So this is happening.  Now.  I am in the hospital.  And I got a letter that started out with a basic “Sorry you’re in the hospital” thing and then a “But we’re gonna try to make you do shit that’d probably kill you or land you back in the hospital to try” thing.  Which makes the “Sorry you’re in the hospital” part feel completely phony.

I was starting to feel a little better and look forward to going home sometime soon, maybe not as soon as I’d like, but soon.  But I can’t go home to being expected to physically do crap I couldn’t safely do on my best day.

And I can’t stress how much someone at some level is perfectly aware what this means that they are asking this of me just now.

And that they don’t care the risks to me (even if they think it’ll just push me into accepting their bullshit program) tells me they really don’t care deep down if I live or die.  Because people who care if you live or die don’t dangle you over a cliff (or even pretend to do so) to get you to do what they want, even if they think they have a good hold on you.  Ever.

And the fun thing is even if you see this, and even if those around you see this, and you see the patterns enough to know what’s happening, you can’t necessarily tell who precisely they are.  They may be someone you never meet directly.  But people who explicitly range from apathetic to malicious abour your continued existence are out there.  And unfortunately in our culture of familial and caregiver benevolence, nobody who hasn’t seen it for themselves wants to believe it, even though it’s something well beyond commonplace.

So you can’t always just point to an Umbridge.  Even if there’s an Umbridge, or a small army of Umbridges.  (Umbridge got into this post because someone referred to this, after reading the letters, as “Dolores Umbridge-level fuckery”.)

And for the record, accepting death as a whole does not mean I accept this kind of death for an instant.  If I die because I’m expected to do crap I’ve never been able to do and is now physically dangerous for me to even be walked through the motions of, that’s not just dying because I’d die anyway.  And there’s a huge difference.  And I hope I don’t have to explain that difference to anyone.  I’ve long said that dying because I’d die anyway is fine with me, but dying out of someone’s apathy or stupidity or malice will leave me the world’s most pissed-off ghost.  If I had any intention of being a ghost, which I don’t (not sure it’s possible but very sure that trying would be destructive).  But you get the idea.

Posted in Death & Mortality Series

Life has the fragility of a leaf full of holes shaking

This post is part of my Death & Mortality Series.  Please read my introduction to my Death & Mortality series if you can, to understand the context I write this in.  Thank you.

Shortly after I came home from the hospital, I stood outside next to a tree. I leaned on the tree because the short walk had wiped me out.

I felt my entire body at once. I was shaking. I felt like the thinnest and most fragile leaf, with holes in it. I started to feel transparent.

Light shone through the transparency that affected everything. With it, love, connection, change, truth, things that can never be named or described. Still aware of my entire body at once, the immense struggle it took to physically continue on any level. How close I was to death. Light through the leaves on the tree above me. Light through me invisibly, through everything.

I understand important things through the workings of the redwoods. Things without names, things without words. Redwood Terrace is holy ground embedded in my soul. Under my feet is earth, and roots, and many things unseen. And a connection to Redwood Terrace, outside time. And I am there, as well.

The fungal mycelium people never think about, under their feet all the time. Life, and death, and life, connected, changing, moving, things becoming parts of one another. An old, familiar, comforting promise: If you die this time, if you must step over that edge, we promise, we promise this is in store for you on every level, and if you want, we will eat you, we will change you, you will become life for so many, and on it goes, and this is love, this is our offering to the world.

If I knew I was dying and there were no consequences to these acts, I would put my last ounces of energy and effort into going to Redwood Terrace. I would find a hollow tree or the closest thing, curl up, and wait. The end might be painful, terrible, messy, but nothing is tidy about dying and none of us is guaranteed it will be easy. I would die in the place I have the most connection to. My last act to offer myself over to that place, body and soul. Everything from microbes to plants to animals to fungi would have a feast and I would turn into life, and things would be happening on levels that have no words and can’t be spoken of.

I will never do this. The person who found me. The pointless waste of resources looking for a crime that never happened. These are enough reasons, and there are more. But it’s what I’d want. I’ll settle for being composted and the results returned to the ground as close to the Mother Tree as possible. Nobody is guaranteed the life we want or the death we want. But that is the death I want.

But as I stand there I am aware of that promise, aware of the ancient threads under my feet tying death and life as essential parts of each other. Aware that should death happen there is beauty and love, not fear. How everything left of me can be absorbed into new life and timeless love. Aware how close I stand to the line, aware of the silent, patient presence of Death.

Death by now is an old friend. I’ve had too many close calls not to become acquainted. I once spent five weeks pretty much abandoned to live or die in a series of hospital rooms where for the most part I was unwanted. Doctors have said they’re surprised I pulled through without the ICU that time. I was alone for vast stretches of time, I was delirious and terrified. Death was there, though.

And I came to know Her as kind, caring, a friend. She was in no hurry. She can wait forever, She’ll find all of us one day. But when you sit close to her, sometimes you have choices nobody talks about. Where you could go with Her right away, or try and stay. And nobody would know. Trying to stay alive doesn’t guarantee life of course. I chose Death’s companionship, which doesn’t mean choosing to die. But every time, I chose to stay alive.

It’s odd that a vivid picture has formed in my mind of what Death would look like to me if she were human. She looks very much related to me, like an ancestor I’ve never met who strongly resembles many people on my father’s side of the family. Very old with long white hair. I guess she has some qualities in common with George McDonald’s multiple-greats-grandmother character in The Princess and the Goblin series. She’s very powerful, has the potential to be very kind and loving, and does not actually bear any ill will towards the living.

But She isn’t human and I imagine She looks different to everyone. I’ve never seen Her with my eyes, only had this vivid image of how She would look if human. But really my encounters with Death are more wordless and imageless and impossible to put down in writing, including that endless five weeks of Her. But I can feel when She’s hanging around me, and so can some of my friends. It always means something has slipped too close to completely guarantee survival.

Most people think of the survival instinct as something rooted somewhere in the brain. And there certainly is one there. But it goes deeper than that. All life from the first single-celled organism tries hard to live. Being alive is extremely difficult and takes work and energy. Without some drive for survival, nothing would bother. Every living thing has some version of this drive for survival.

And I am not just a brain, and my brain is not separate from my body, and my body is not just a carrying case for a brain. I’m made of all these cells, some working together, and all kinds of things. Each wanting individually and collectively to live. When I say I chose life, I don’t just mean my thoughts chose life. I didn’t always have enough thoughts to string that kind of choice together. My whole body chose life and fought hard for it and that’s why I’m still here. It seems arrogant to reduce myself to the little part of me that sits and reflects on things, then claim full credit. There’s nothing like delirium to show you the brain is just another body part. And when my mind wasn’t functioning right the rest of me still fought like hell to be here.

I’m well aware the things I’m saying could terrify people. But they are real for me. Death is welcome in my life. This is easily misunderstood, though. I don’t have a death wish. I used to. A grinding, unrelenting one that tormented me every second of the day and caused a big conflict with my survival drive, which I alternately thanked and cursed. That was a long time ago. Certainly long before I befriended Death.

Coming to know Death intimately has been one of the most life-affirming things I’ve ever experienced.

Posted in Death & Mortality Series

Death & Mortality Series.

Hello, and welcome to the first post in my Death & Mortality series.  You can read my Death and Mortality posts any time with the Death & Mortality Series category on this blog.  This post is essential to understanding the context of any post I make about my experiences and viewpoints around death and mortality, so if you’re able to read it please do.  It will explain what I do mean, what I don’t mean, and why I am planning to write so much about death at all.  And especially this post explains a particular way I do not ever want my posts about death taken or used.  So moving on…

Light shining through the canopy of a redwood forest in San Mateo County.
Canopy of Redwood Terrace with sun shining through.

I have meant for a long time to write a long series of posts about my relationship with death and my own mortality.  But the sensitive and complex nature of the topic has always stopped me.  It’s not the kind of topic where my views can be summed up in a single post.  At the same time, if I posted some of the things I believe and experience, I worry they could be used out of contexts to support viewpoints that have real-world deadly consequences for disabled people.  So I have hesitated to post about it except in certain selective contexts.  And I have let many important things go unsaid.

Because death is an important topic for everyone.  It’s the one thing that all people are guaranteed to experience.  And there are a lot of taboos about even discussing death.  So I want to discuss my relationship with death in detail.

But I also want to say up-front that I speak for nobody but myself and maybe any others who may feel the same as I do.  (It’s not uncommon, but goes largely unspoken.)  And that I never mean to imply that my experiences ought to be the same as another person’s experiences.  Your relationship with death is deeply personal.  Everyone has a different one.  That is not a bad thing.  Lots of people see death very differently than I do.  Lots of people experience their own mortality and that of others in a very different way than I do.  That diversity of experience is probably a good thing.  I in no way intend to say that everyone can or should view their own death or that of of others in the same way I do.

That said, I do have certain views about death that go beyond the personal.  For instance, my views on the way disabled people face ableist assumptions that kill us on a regular basis.  Those are not just my personal views about facing my own mortality.  Those are views that I do think are important on a wider scale than me and people like me, because those ableist ideas are out there killing people every single day.  They have almost killed me more than once.  And I draw a distinction between what’s essentially a political standpoint (my views on death and disability), which is intended to be taken broadly, and things that deal with my very personal, very subjective relationship to death and my own mortality.  Hopefully you can understand there’s a distinction here, even if the two have some overlap.

And it’s that tension between a very private and subjective personal experience, and a political view about ableism that is already killing people, that makes this such a difficult topic for me to discuss.  Because my relationship with death is extremely friendly in nature, my views of death are very positive.  But part of that deadly ableism out there is the idea that disabled people are better off “accepting” death, or just plain better off dead.  And I don’t want my personal acceptance of death to ever in a million years be used to justify the idea that disabled people should just accept our fates to die and not fight for our lives like anyone else would.  That’s not the kind of acceptance I talk about when I talk about my personal acceptance of death, and anyone using my personal acceptance of death to justify DNRs for all disabled or potentially disabled people or something is flagrantly misusing my words out of context to support things I would never support, and will be treated as such.  (And no, I will never have a DNR, that’s not what I mean when I say I accept death.)

But the real reasons I want to talk about death are more related to the unexpected personal experiences I have had along the way.  Far from feeling morbid, my relationship with death has long been extremely life-affirming.  And while it may sound like and dovetail well fo the most part with certain viewpoints out there that are becoming more popular or at least more openly spoken of, there are sometimes differences that are important.  And everyone’s various experiences of these things are important, and not things that should have to be hidden in the shadows to make a death-terrified society comfortable.  Nobody should have to talk about these things in public, but it should be something people can have a public discussion about.

Obviously the topic is also highly emotionally charged for just about everyone.  Most people have strong feelings about death whether they think about it regularly or not.  It’s something everyone encounters and has to grapple with, and everyone responds to in different ways based on everything from personality to culture to personal experiences in life.  Our own mortality shapes us, the loss of loved ones shapes us, and these things can make death an extremely difficult topic.  So does the fact that it’s in many cultures something you’re just not supposed to talk about.  And where there are often rigid views that people are expected to hold.  So I totally understand how emotional and difficult discussions of death can be for people in a huge variety of ways.

Also, my posts may get into specific religious and spiritual views, or things that sound like religious and spiritual views, that are personal to me.   All cultures and religions have extremely varied views on death, and many people are atheist, not religious, or have very specific personal views that don’t follow any particular religious view.  I respect all of those viewpoints and how they can differ both between and among themselves.  Please respect my own views, and that my holding and discussing those views does not mean I am trying to force anyone else to believe the same things I do.  These things are, again, very personal.

All of these things have made making even one of the posts I want to make, very difficult.  But I do want to make a series of posts dealing with death specifically.  And writing this, so you understand the context I’m doing it in, is the first step.  And the step that has kept me from writing any of the others.

I don’t know how fast I will write more posts, or how many I will write.  Whether I write one or dozens, be aware that each is only a small piece of a larger whole.  Some posts may even seem to contradict each other at first glance, especially if you’re unfamiliar with views similar to my own.  (People often expect one view to be clustered with a bunch of other views in a certain way, and my views on just about anything do not tend to follow those expectations very well.  It makes it hard to communicate sometimes.)  Like many people would be a little confused by I completely accept death and even welcome it as an important and beautiful part of life and I want to live as long as I possibly can even at costs other people would find unacceptable coming from the same person.  But those are viewpoints I hold and they don’t actually contradict each other.  And many people assume the only reason someone could possibly want “extraordinary measures” medically is an extreme fear of death — not true either.  So just… please try not to assume too much from a single post, or you’ll get confused.  If I could make one post that summed up everything, it would’ve happened already.

TL;DR:

  • I’m making a series of posts about death and mortality.  I don’t know how long it’s gonna be.  You can find it in my Death & Mortality Series category.
  • Some posts will deal with highly personal views.
  • Some posts will deal with more broad political and ethical views, especially around disability rights and deadly forms of ableism.  When it comes to these broader topics I am going to sometimes say when I think certain views and policies and systems actually harm and kill people.
  • Each of us deals with our own death and mortality differently for a huge number of reasons, and just because I deal with mine a certain way doesn’t mean I’m telling you that you have to deal with yours the same way.
  • I respect the many different cultural, religious, and spiritual perspectives that exist out there regarding death, please respect mine.  In stating mine I’m not trying to say yours are bad or that everyone should share mine.
  • Please understand each post is once piece of a complicated issue.
  • If this is too intense for you, feel free to skip it.
  • This is all extremely important to me.