I tell ya, it’s hard to get good food in prison.
The above is a list of the foodstuffs that Dr. George Kevorkian (aka “Dr. Death”) reportedly missed during his prison sentence. Released from prison today after an 8 year term for his role in the assisted suicide of Thomas Youk (52 years old, suffering from Lou Gherig’s Disease) in 1998, Dr. K is off to perhaps enjoy a bowl of Special K along with his preferred culinary delights.
He won’t be participating in any more assisted suicides, but he has stated he will actively seek the legalization of euthanasia nationwide. One small step for the dying, made by a man full of life.
This surprise installment of Redheaded Fury was prompted by the above news story splashing across my Yahoo! News page, and with just one click, my blood got to a slow, rolling boil. Today’s column is bound to do some pissing-off and toe-stepping, but too fucking bad.
It’s my keyboard, and I’ll type what I wanna.
I’m not a Christian by any stretch of the imagination, but I do admire the perpetuity of the myth. It’s certain to say that I’m not a subscriber to any sort of organized religion or set philosophy, but am inherently spiritual and overly interested in the meta- and quantum physical, so it’s likely I’ve already lost some of you. (she waves “bye bye”)
So, Erika … how exactly is it that you’re going to tie Dr. Death into your Redheaded Fury installment?
We all have a tendency to stay in things much longer than we should (Rocky V, the war in the Middle East, Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown, Rosie O’Donnell and The View…).
I’ve always been a supporter of Kevorkian’s … not so much from the standpoint of the catalytic nature of his presence among those who have chosen to utilize his services, but moreso his embodiment of the truest meaning of intent. In the last installment of Redheaded Fury, I ranted about our actions not matching intentions. Well, folks, here is one instance where a man has embraced and accepted the intentions of others along with his own, and chosen a path seen as difficult by many, abhorrent by more, and permissible by few.
When in life — even daily life — do you choose to call Time of Death?
I cannot fathom in my heart of hearts the unworldly pain and suffering of the terminally ill, nor comprehend their very private (and final) decision to actively resolve such, but can respect their decision. Similarly, however, I also can’t comprehend the life led by Mother Teresa, one devoted to the Roman Catholic ideal of God and a vow of chastity, but can marvel at her accomplishments and the legacy she’s left us all to ponder.
That being said, it seems to me that we are afraid of, intimidated, and easily angered by that which we could not do ourselves, nor understand (nor make moves to understand).
This question of “How long should I stay here?” is one we answer several times daily, whether having to do with a job, store, relationship, home, intersection, water fountain, or life itself. We judge those around us daily for how long they choose to hang in a certain place (and god forbid, you be in front of me at a traffic light and have decided to stay too long), celebrate or lament our collective decisions to move on, or piss and moan about our decision to not make a decision and continue our sordid affair with Mr./Ms. Status Quo.
Today’s relatively short blog will come down to this: you’ve gotta call Time of Death eventually.
To linger is painful and serves no one. It makes nothing better, negatively impacts those around you, and sure as hell ain’t payin’ the mortgage.
If we choose to judge, we should turn the reflecting pool in the direction of our own front yard and see if we meet the measure to which we hold others. My immediate guess is that we would all be holding our own heads under water and gasping for the air of salvation before long.
To be decisive … is our choice. I want to make the decision several times a day to summon my own inner Kevorkian and be mentally, physically, and spiritually active. Through each thing I end, continue, move through, or start again comes the food for my soul that lets me know that the life I live isn’t idle and that it’s lived with intention.
Relationship that’s going nowhere? End it.
Red light turns green? Move through it.
Job offer I want? Take it.
Feeling chunky in my skinny jeans? Work out.
Just think of the consequences of NOT acting on any of those things (except my skinny jeans thing…that’s my bag). I think it’s the same people who condemn Kevorkian for his participation in the final decisions of the barely living who live in continuous judgement and always seek answers outside of themselves as opposed to creating their own path. Sheep, the lot of ya—and yes, that’s how I really feel.
It is our inherent responsibility to flow along with where the Universe directs us, and if all things lead us to make a choice, I feel it’s best to regret that choice after it’s been made. After all, to change our path while on the road of adventure is easy (and who knows – there might even be grapes, apricots and a delightfully tasty morsel of lavosh bread awaiting us at the next intersection). To never embark upon that journey in the first place…
Please note that Jodi has been using the phrase: “OK, I’m calling it…Time of Death is…” for years. Actually, I steal several worthy phrases from Jodi, including (but not limited to):
“Time of Death”
Had I not placed this disclaimer in my blog, Jodi swore she would dress me up like a chicken and sic her flat-faced Persian fluffball cat Puffy on me. It’s a terrifying threat actually, as Puffy only eats chicken. It would be like the pigs in Hannibal. Yeesh.