Say you’re in your late seventies, maybe eighty. You can still move around unassisted and you generally recognize the world and people around you; you remember where you put your socks and you know how to put them on. You pee in the bathroom and not in your pants. You go to bed as normal on a Thursday, and on Friday, you don’t wake up. Your heart just stops, there was no pain, no drama. As far as death and dying go, you just hit lotto, I mean, you’re dead, but you got lucky. Your body left but your dignity remained. No one gets that lucky in real life and the end for most of us, if our parents are an accurate indicator, will be a humiliating, debasing, bank-account-draining disaster that will terrorize our children and make a mockery of the life we aspired to make meaningful.
We Need Better Exit Strategies
