In the state of Washington it is legal to end your life if you have a terminal illness and if you are able to self administer. You tell your doctor, who refers you to a panel of professionals who ask you a bunch of questions. In a few weeks you go back and do it again. If you pass the hurdles, you get the appropriate prescriptions to have filled. The prescriptions are for anti-emetics and phenobarbitol. Yes, I've asked a few questions of my own. I've been considering taking this route as of late. My progress is ramping up. I'm essentially a quadrapalegic but have full mental faculties and I'm being cared for by people who don't really know me or care about me. Additionally, my husband is here less and less. While I need him more and more. My family visits infrequently. I spend an inordinate amount of time alone and I'm coherent enough to know it. I see the road ahead. I live here. I may as well be dead sooner than later.
Orange, gold, rust, burnt sienna, ochre, raw umber; the riot of fall colors, in the trees and at our booted feet; a drive in the countryside; the taste of hot apple cider on my lips; the satisfaction of a truckload of firewood we gathered and cut ourselves; elk herds on the move; hearty stews, savory soup, crusty whole-grain bread, pumpkin and gingerbread spice lattes; these are the memories I tap into the most this time of year. Cabela's fliers in the mailbox; Carhart's camo-clad hunters swarm outlying areas; mushroom garthering; huckleberry picking; logger burgers; forest service roads; cheese sandwiches on the woodstove; warm quilts, cool sheets, and flannel nightgowns; cold butt, warm heart. Immensely grateful to have the well of memories to draw upon.
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