Partial-Elf
Eternal Oblivion
- Dec 26, 2018
- 461
I was running through this as a thought experiment the other day: to live in a world where a person's decision to CTB would be respected rather than treated as a tragedy.
I would plan a big party rather than having a funeral. Friends and family would all congratulate me and tell me how much they loved me–no one would try to stop me or make me feel guilty. We'd all be dressed to the nines and very drunk. Someone would make a toast. Music and glitter.
During the months leading up to the appointment, I would meet up with people who've been truly special in my life–mentors, closest friends, and a few past lovers. We'd have drawn out brunches and lots of coffee and get vulnerable one last time.
At work they'd give me a hero's farewell. They'd highlight the contributions I've made and give me some little gift bags of things I almost like. I'd clean out my desk and turn in my keys and shake a lot of hands on the way out.
I'd probably travel somewhere after that just because... Don't know where though. Maybe Thailand?
When I got back home I'd work with a lawyer to get everything set up. Getting the legal papers for my physician-assisted suicide would be quick and painless. I'd divide any funds remaining after death between family, a local scholarship, and a nonprofit whose mission I strongly agree with.
With everything in place, I'd schedule an appointment with a doctor specializing in physician-assisted suicide. I'd say goodbye to my family a week or so before, then just have a few quiet days of sitting on the porch, painting, and writing before packing everything up and shipping it off or donating it.
On the day of the appointment, the room would be comfortable rather than sterile. Plants, natural light, leather chairs with blankets, rugs. They would leave me alone with the capsule, which I would take, and that would be it: goodbye cruel world. Full stop. Period.
I would plan a big party rather than having a funeral. Friends and family would all congratulate me and tell me how much they loved me–no one would try to stop me or make me feel guilty. We'd all be dressed to the nines and very drunk. Someone would make a toast. Music and glitter.
During the months leading up to the appointment, I would meet up with people who've been truly special in my life–mentors, closest friends, and a few past lovers. We'd have drawn out brunches and lots of coffee and get vulnerable one last time.
At work they'd give me a hero's farewell. They'd highlight the contributions I've made and give me some little gift bags of things I almost like. I'd clean out my desk and turn in my keys and shake a lot of hands on the way out.
I'd probably travel somewhere after that just because... Don't know where though. Maybe Thailand?
When I got back home I'd work with a lawyer to get everything set up. Getting the legal papers for my physician-assisted suicide would be quick and painless. I'd divide any funds remaining after death between family, a local scholarship, and a nonprofit whose mission I strongly agree with.
With everything in place, I'd schedule an appointment with a doctor specializing in physician-assisted suicide. I'd say goodbye to my family a week or so before, then just have a few quiet days of sitting on the porch, painting, and writing before packing everything up and shipping it off or donating it.
On the day of the appointment, the room would be comfortable rather than sterile. Plants, natural light, leather chairs with blankets, rugs. They would leave me alone with the capsule, which I would take, and that would be it: goodbye cruel world. Full stop. Period.
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