burdens off families’ hands to coping with poverty
amongtheelderly—butneverthegoalthatmatterstothe
peoplewhoresideinthem:howtomakelifeworthliving
whenwe’reweakandfrailandcan’tfendforourselves
anymore.
ONE DAY WHEN Jim visited Alice, she whispered
somethingin hisear.It waswinter1994, afewweeks
afterherhipfractureandadmissiontotheskillednursing
unitandtwoyearssinceshe’dbegunlivingatLongwood
House. He’d wheeled her from her room for a stroll
aroundthecomplex.Theyfoundacomfortableplacein
thelobbyandstoppedtositforawhile.Theywereboth
quietpeople,andthey’dbeencontenttosittheresilently,
watchingpeoplecomeandgo.Thatwaswhensheleaned
toward himin her wheelchair.Shewhispered just two
words.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Helookedather.Shelookedathim.Andheunderstood.
She was ready to die.
“Okay, Mom,” Jim said.
Itsaddenedhim.Hewasn’tsurewhattodoaboutit.But
notlong afterward,thetwoofthemarrangedforaDo
NotResuscitateordertobeputonrecordatthenursing
home.Ifherheartorherbreathingstopped,theywould
notattempttorescueherfromdeath.Theywouldnotdo
chestcompressionsorshockherorputabreathingtube
down her throat. They would let her go.
Monthspassed.Shewaitedandendured.OneAprilnight,
she developed abdominal pains. She mentioned them