Terrible Title, Depressing Themes, Susan Sarandon... HBO Must Hate Me

You Don’t Know Jack has been playing on a near-continuous loop on forty-two of the forty-six HBO stations lately. Starring Al Pacino as the infamous assisted-suicide advocate Dr Jack Kevorkian, Know Jack treats the viewer to an interminable* and macabre parade of heart-wrenchingly desperate invalids, each one begging Kevorkian for a means to end their suffering without leaving their loved ones to dig a bullet out of the headboard.

Liberty’s most basic premise is ownership of one’s body, so most of my gentle readers can likely extrapolate their own Finch-worthy argument in support of Kevorkian’s efforts. What struck me from the film, though, was the unexpected nausea induced by his methods. After losing access to the planned site for Kevorkian’s first assisted suicide at the last minute, the doctor carried out the procedure in the back of his VW van rather than pulling the plug* for the day and rescheduling. His apparatus for administering the lethal drug cocktail was jerry-rigged from secondhand bits of mismatched aluminum and binder clips, and –- in the most upsetting scene of the film -– when Kevorkian began trying to reduce how much gas it took to achieve termination, one elderly man was subjected to saying goodbye to his wife from inside a miserable-looking Scotch-tape and Saran Wrap gas-retention tent which bore striking resemblance to a grade-school astronaut costume.

Don’t misunderstand; the melodramatic pageantry of post-death rituals these days is atrocious and generally exploitative. But considering nearly every one of Kevorkian’s cases left behind the deceased’s loved ones who will forever struggle with their own decision to "let" the suicide happen, the doctor owed them a bit more effort in terms of professionalism. According to the film, Kevorkian himself reached this same epiphany from jail but was stymied by a government committed to suffocating* his plans to open an end-of-life clinic in the US.

A life so painful that death seems winsome is positively unimaginable, but an eternal solution that strips any dignity from one’s final moments manages to make it worse. Government needs to stand aside and let the market perfect this process.


*Get it?

Wholesale Healthcare (and Eunuchs)

Over at Hit & Run, reliable commenter P Brooks sums up Obamacare quite well:

And- goddammit!- if you make it mandatory for everyone, and prohibit risk-based pricing, it's not actually "insurance" anymore. It's a "buyers' club" for medical services.

Obviously, a buyers' club is great if you're an unemployed 50-year-old base-jumping, gator-wrestling smoker with diabetes and chronic dry eye; not so much if you're a healthy, risk-averse person forced to participate.

That's all I've got. Celebrating the birthday of the non-denominational Holiday Infant has evidently quelled my indignation.

If you absolutely must have something else today, hop across the virtual pond and read about Pakistani eunuchs winning the right to be recognized as a distinct third gender.

14 Days Without Sleep Makes One Weak

A full two weeks ago, I drifted off under anesthetic while some eight-year-old with palsy practiced pumpkin-carving in my sinuses. Since then, and into the foreseeable future, I have been spending the hours between 10pm and 6am on the sofa, sitting straight up, pretending that I might eventually sleep. This overnight posture is required because of the 74 gallons of drainage (the medical term for snot) I now generate per night.

Every hour or so, I abandon my post on the sofa, stumble in the dark through the gauntlet of baby paraphernalia and empty tissue boxes to the bathroom, and force saltwater up my nose in direct conflict with everything I learned at YMCA swim class. The commotion, of course, convinces the dogs that it’s time for breakfast, so even after I find my way back to the couch, alternately dripping tainted saltwater and “drainage”, they sit attentively by my side, reminding me in that whiny dog language that their bowls are still empty. Never mind that it’s 1:45am.

Eventually baby Wyatt wakes up, and we go about our morning as if the night was somehow rejuvenating.

59 minutes out of every hour during the day, I hold my breath. Not by choice, but because my nose is clogged full of that stuff inside Cadbury Crème Eggs and breathing through my mouth all night has turned my throat into some sort of parched, scorched Taliban survival course. I try to save that one breath per hour for when the boss comes around to ask if everything is okay. “Yep,” I bark, which is code for “Please ignore the fact that I look like Martin Landau three days into a meth bender; I do not actually have the swine flu.” At least I assume it’s my boss. The hallucinations lately make it difficult to tell him apart from the giant Pillsbury Dough Boy who lives in the supply closet behind me.

Assurances have been made that I will eventually heal, although the “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!” banner hanging behind the Doc at my follow-up appointment was a bit disconcerting. And I’m pretty sure it was his lawyer who poked his head into the exam room, telling the Doc, “Hey, the judge totally isn’t buying it. You should probably have a bag packed and keep your passport on you.”

So for now, it’s back to the sofa and the Scotticus-shaped indentation that has formed within it, where I offer a fatted calf to the gods Kleenex, Ocean, Afrin, and Advil. I pray that they are appeased and benevolent, but I’m not holding my breath.

You Devious Septum, You

My septum has mutinied. And not a quick, keelhaul-the-captain, pirate-type mutiny; it’s been more of a slow, forget-limited-government-let’s-elevate-George-W-Bush-and-John-McCain-to-leadership-positions, Republican-Party-type mutiny.

A normal, functional septum looks like this:


Evidently, mine looks something like this:


So, while the doctor was examining my CAT scans and explaining just how much of my face he is going to scrape away with a tiny Dremel, I experienced a vasovagal episode and nearly fell out of his fancy exam chair.

Doc Dremel calmly told me what was happening, leaned my chair back, and allowed me to marinate for a bit. Here's the awesome part: After probably three minutes (me still sweating through my button-down and watching dancing white spots) the doctor asks, “Are you feeling well enough to sign the consent forms?” Dry as a bone.

True story.

Maternity Malcontent. Or, Neonatal Nefariousness

Despite checking in under my secret identity, I'm beginning to suspect my archenemy Red Leader is orchestrating the staff here at the hospital. My infrequent sleep is constantly interrupted, and they have been withholding food since day one. The few foot-massages my wife has had time to offer me seem to always be a second priority at best, and my morale is suffering.

Still, the boy is gaining strength. Many of the world's greatest superheroes did not develop powers until puberty, so hope is not lost. And things could always be worse.