I do not plan to live long enough to require professional nursing care; actually, I plan not to. However, one must take into consideration the benevolent intervention from loved ones who may feel differently regarding your end of life choices.
Have an exit strategy; because once you are under the purview of medical professionals, making decisions for yourself becomes nearly impossible. It does not look good on the change of shift report that so-and-so died of not so natural causes. The resulting paperwork alone is enough to keep the nursing staff’s eyes laser focused on any resident with a mind of their own.
Nursing facilities are known for assisted living, not for assisted passings.
My youngest daughter, who has always looked after her aging, damaged dad with dutiful diligence bordering on the authoritarian, has advised me that she plans to visit in the near future to “tidy up a bit.” The precursor to this upcoming domestic intervention was a visit by Julia and her spousal unit, Nick, the day they took me to purchase my new chair. We had to rearrange some of my living room furniture, the big items that I am unable to move on my own. Julia was aghast that her father lived like a meshugenah, surrounded by stacks of books, and innumerable tchotchkes.
Now, I am not a very meticulous housekeeper, cleaning is least among my daily living concerns, and I focus what cleaning proclivities I do have on personal hygiene, cooking area, felis catus, vacuuming, and laundry. I do make my bed each morning, something I take as a necessary awakening ritual, like coffee, the day just cannot start unless the bed is made. As for the rest of my apartment, it more closely resembles the domicile of some half-mad book hoarder who is more comfortable surrounded by chaos than someone concerned with order or efficiency but I know where everything of importance resides.
As a child, I recall my father often reciting “a place for everything and everything in its place,” I guess that was one of the many lessons I ignored or forgot and I forgot a lot.
I fear that I may have shocked my daughter, who apparently lives according to the rule, “cleanliness is next to godliness,” another victim of the vagaries and vicissitudes of time; however, I am unable to just drop in and check the veracity of that assumption.
On the other hand, I do love my daughter and do not wish to see her upset due to my aberrant lifestyle; therefore, I must manage-up so that I can remain free to live out my life for as long as I deem necessary or it worthwhile. Therefore, I have engaged in pre-emptive spring-cleaning in preparation for her visit as distasteful as cleaning is, I will do what I must to ensure that I can range free.
“Certainly it hurts, “The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.” ~ T.E. Lawrence; therefore, I will clean adequately to prove my stamina, while leaving just enough detritus so that my progeny will feel satisfied that she has fulfilled her familial duty.
This minor subterfuge is lovingly meant and since my daughters do not subscribe to this blog nor do they follow me on Facebook or belong to either of my groups they will remain blissfully ignorant of my sly machination.