Well, we got the tree up today. And if you want to see something truly beautiful, you should see the look on a seven year old's face when the tree lights up for the first time. Silly and corny I know, but true, nonetheless. We also hung the stockings and put up a few other odds and ends, but I'm still not getting that Christmasy vibe when I look around. And I so want this taken care of by Thursday morning when I get in the car to go have surgery. Sigh...isn't it just like me to leave it to the last minute?
Okay, so I filled out the advanced directive papers tonight. Nothing like a little what to do if I'm a vegetable to fill you with Christmas joy, right? So, here's the question...at what point do you stop having a reasonable quality of life. I know I don't want to be kept alive if someone has to feed and and change me. I know that I don't want to be kept alive on life support, but where's the line...I have some responsibility to my kid to be alive for as long as possible, right? But at what level? I mean, I'm not really being alive for her if I'm unable to communicate with her. But, what if I can communicate with her, just not as a mom because I've lost that mental capability? It's sort of a sobering realization. I mean, yes, I realize that it's most likely a moot point, but it's an interesting idea to consider.
But, for the record...I hereby forbid any friend, family member or distant acquaintance to splash pictures of me as a turnip all over MSNBC should the situation arise. I refuse to be the next Terry Schiavo. If Jamie makes the decision to pull the plug, let her. If you don't I'll come back and haunt you...or something....
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