We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
What Ruth’s doctor had done was unusual, or maybe even inappropriate, they told me—delivering bad news, especially over the phone, before it needed to be conveyed. When I asked them when the right time was to tell someone that death is unavoidable, they most often told me that the moment occurs after several successive attempts at stopping the cancer have failed. Only then, when the patient is cornered by cancer, that’s the time.
I'm not your buddy, guy. If you need a friend, get a dog. A doctor is supposed to give you competent care and then leave you alone.
He was the profane rube who had a mystical obsession with grammatical
punctilio and syntactical clarity. He was the untutored knucklehead (“Is
Moby Dick the man or the whale?” he famously asked) who lived on
unfiltered cigarettes, poker chips, and Scotch and yet somehow managed
to hire James Thurber and E. B. White, Janet Flanner and Lillian Ross,
Edmund Wilson and Vladimir Nabokov, A. J. Liebling and Joseph Mitchell.
Duh. Writers like money. Writers really don't like anything but money. In this country, the man who gives victory in battle is prized beyond every other man.
In the new Internet economy, pious leftist code jockeys found companies that do nothing but put people out of work, then use the money they make to support redistributionist leftist politicians. It's the circle of life.
For example, say there's limited food in the environment. In such a
context those persons that associate food with anger and turn aggression
into an attack response to get the food are more likely to survive. "If
the food does not make you angry or doesn't produce aggression in your
system, you may starve and lose the battle," Aarts says.
I see the scientific community has discovered the Taco Bell drive through lane. Keep up the good work, guys.
In my day, you whippersnapper, "walk up music" was salsa music I heard through the door, being played at 90 decibels by the guy in 7A when I walked up the stairs to my third floor apartment. Don't get me started on the trumpet player.
Let's have a good day, people. And be careful out there
My father's long-time girlfriend, when he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, would not let anyone tell him. Including his own children...who had been estranged from him for many years. I am still upset with her for that because my father only lived for about six weeks after his diagnosis and my feeling was that he might've said some things to me and my siblings if he knew he was dying. He thought he just had a bad case a pneumonia.
He spent much of that time on a ventilator, unable to talk...so that window of opportunity was very short for my father and I to have a heart-to-heart talk before his death.
I think if it is inevitable. If the docs know that your loved one will be unable to talk and in intensive care, the truth should not be withheld. I think it is taking away the dignity of that person, who may have things to say or do in their last days. And you are taking that choice from them.
I would have loved to have had that kind of time with my husband. They put him on the ventilator when I brought him to the ICU. I watched him fail for two weeks as the pneumonia destroyed his lungs. He was never really conscious that entire time. We had lived our life together with the understanding that today was what we had. We always told each other " I love you" every day of that 37 years together. So there is that.
Really, people do not have a good concept of death these days. They think doctors are miracle workers and that every hurt can be healed. And they insist on doing procedures that are painful and do nothing to prolong life. In some ways, I wish I hadn't taken my husband into the Emergency room. It would have been better if he'd died at home in his own bed.