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Our Lifestyle Discussion
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By ValentinesStuff · Posted
Arnold Schwarzenegger exposes Sylvester Stallone's unique fashion choice: 'It's like diapers' It's near the end of the article. Apparently Sly likes onesies. -
I would love the operation, but I want all my prostate taking out, left 100% incontinent, with no erections ever again. Also a smaller penis would be nice. Also I would go for the bowel surgery as well which will leave me permanently bowel incontinent, with passive incontinence where I'm unaware I've messed until I can smell it. This would become a dream come true. -
Here in our sympathetic echo chamber we can lose sight about how far outside societal mores we have strayed. One of my beloved’s very last ageing ancestors, an antiquated aunty who was already slightly dotty when I first met her nearly forty years ago, had been, from the comfort of her very expensive and almost embarrassingly luxurious aged care facility, spending more and more time off with the pixies. We were aware that her dementia had been proceeding at pace and my beloved’s phone calls with her had been becoming more and more surreal. Recently, Aunty Dotty had decided that the aged residential facility in whose secure “high care” wing she now resided, was in fact a corporate headquarters and furthermore, she was its CEO. Apparently she’d been issuing managerial imperatives and unemployment threats against a range of staff. Before however she could proceed with the restructure of her business and presumably laying off most of her workers, she got pneumonia (again) precipitating the care facility calling the “next of kin” after packing her off in an ambulance. I listened to one half of the phone call from the aged care facility. When it concluded, I was duly briefed: both on Aunty’s C-suite antics at her “corporation” and the sudden hove into view of unplanned medical interventions. “She’s been admitted into hospital again but we’ve got a do-not-resuscitate directive now so if it comes to that, I’ll have to fly down for the funeral” my beloved informed me. That seemed a little harsh. It’s just a touch of pneumonia and as far as I could tell, she was otherwise very happy running her business. It was her “employees” that I felt sorry for. “Really?” I said. “I know she’s got a bit of dementia but she seems well enough. I didn’t think she was THAT far gone?” “Well it’s not just that. She’s TOTALLY incontinent now” my beloved explained. And that was that. Clearly her life was no longer worth living, at least in the eyes of her family. In fact I know that her care facility is completely geared for nappy-clad residents and probably, for reasons of safety and convenience, prefer them that way. Similarly, Aunty Dotty was troubled by her new padded underwear, after her own idiom, many around her would know. This was NOT a lady who was afraid to complain. I strongly suspected she hadn’t even noticed that going to the toilet had mysteriously become a thing of the past for her. On the face of it, it’s just her next of kin that’s decided that things can’t go on. I HAD to say something, despite my life experience telling me that saying something on the home front when silence is an option is rarely a great idea. “Well I’ve been in nappies for more than 5 years now and so unsurprisingly, there’s a bit of incontinence creeping in there. Does that mean I get a do-not-resuscitate label from you on the way past the admissions desk?” “Don’t be ridiculous” she replied in a clipped voice. Unsurprising. Also unsurprising was the immediate termination of discussion. With a theatrical sigh, she pointedly picked up her smartphone and proceeded to ignore me with it for what would otherwise have been, the balance of our conversation. My mentioning of my nappies and my emerging dependence on them precipitated the usual reaction: a complete shutdown of engagement. It was like somebody pushed the discussion off a cliff. Sitting forlornly in my new and unexpected breakfast table solitude (along with sitting in my reasonably wet night nappy), my imagination wandered forward a couple of decades: into the enlightened age whereby voluntary medical euthanasia decisions had been extended to family members of the perpetually bewildered. Doddering around in my late autumnal years, in defiance of ample evidence for cognitive decline I would still escape from my beloved’s supervision to “fix” things around the house. On day after a slip on a ladder, an expletive, a thud and sudden and unexpected ambulance ride, I found myself laying on a trolley in an ER, my beloved at my side. Men in white coats clustered around. They didn’t talk to me. I’d been finding it hard to find the correct words inside my head to use sometimes and the fall hadn’t helped this at all. “Mrs Oznl we’re sorry that Mr Oznl has suffered this fall but given his age and co-morbidities we’re wondering what your wishes are with respect to his medical interventions?” “Oh don’t worry dear, I mean, he’s TOTALLY INCONTINENT! I don’t think there’s really any point in him soldiering on.” “We respect your choice Mrs Oznl. It IS a nasty ankle sprain and he’d almost certainly need physiotherapy afterwards. We’ll cancel the x-rays and just give him something for the pain until the termination team can get down here from upstairs. We probably don’t even need to change him. They won’t be long and he’ll probably just use his nappy again anyway during the procedure. Most people do.” “Well at least he got the TV aerial fixed before it came to this!” Her position on this cannot be written off as a societal outlier. Since the introduction of voluntary assisted dying laws for the terminally ill in my jurisdiction, many individuals have nominated nappy dependence as the trigger point for them “pulling the plug” so to speak. The truncated conversation and the decision that triggered it writ large her thoughts on the matter: death before diapers. That’s what “normal” looks like apparently…
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