I Can Die Now...

WARNING: THIS ENTRY CONTAINS TASTELESS JOKES ABOUT REPUBLICANS AND THE MEDIA

I think given the recent coverage of the Terry Schiavo case [pronounced SHAI-vuh by Tom Delay], the phrase "persistent vegetative state" has replaced "weapons of mass destruction" as the media catch phrase of the year. The pervasiveness of the story has caused many of us to think about our own mortality and how we'd want to be treated in such a situation -- especially since watching the C-SPAN coverage of the Congressional debate on this issue can bring you perilously close to a temporary, if not persistent, vegetative state of your own.

Watching the debate last night, it does make me wonder why the Republican Party is so concerned with this one Florida woman. The president even cut short his vacation at the "Waco White House" to sign the legislation in Washington. Looks like maybe the Republican Party owes her something. Perhaps it's because she voted for Bush in 2000 -- three times.

I guess a lot of lawyers will be having a good month, helping people write their living wills. I don't have a living a will. So if anything happens to me, and there's a question as to whether or not to keep me alive, this blog entry will have to do my talking for me. That being said, if I'm in a persistent vegetative state, I don't want to live. Plain and simple.

But what if it's not that simple? Sometimes things can be a bit grey. Each case is unique and one can never plan for every contingency. What if I can drool, but not swallow? What if I can respond to painful stimuli, but can't pass gas on my own? What if I can't blink voluntarily, but involuntarily laugh while watching reruns of Seventh Heaven? These are tough questions. So what to do?

Well, here's the one rule that I want observed when it comes to keeping me alive:

No matter how alert or responsive I may seem, if I can't fully comprehend and appreciate a Philadelphia sports championship, kill me. If an Eagles Super Bowl win doesn't generate any reaction, pull the cheesesteak puree from my feeding tube. If you think shouting the words, "The Phillies won the World Series!" would mean nothing to me, smother me with a rally towel.

Here's the catch. You really won't be able to tell for sure whether or not to pull my plug until a Philadelphia team actually wins a championship. So, I figure this should buy me at least a few more decades. And who knows, maybe in that time they can find a cure for my sorry condition. Until then, good luck with Congress.