I hate to open this week’s column with bad news, but here it is: You’re going to die. Now try not to get upset — if it’s any consolation, the same fate awaits everyone else. “If I could get Strom Thurmond, I can get you too,” is Death’s motto.
If there is an upside to this bit of news, it’s that you’ll be dying in the era of hospice care. Hospices are units specifically designed to give terminally ill patients a place to die with dignity and in comfort. This is a decidedly better approach than, say, the ancient Inuit practice of setting elderly, infirm or other non-contributing members of the community on ice floes and bidding them bon voyage. Back then, I imagine one’s enthusiasm for attending Inuit family reunions would wane with each successive year.
Inuit Boy: “Grandpa! It’s so good to see you. How are you?”
Inuit Grandfather: “Why, what have you heard? Well I’m perfectly fine. And still making plenty of valuable contributions to the community, I might add.”
When my grandmother recently had to go into hospice, our family was very pleased with the care from the hospice doctors. Although, as my Aunt Laura pointed out, how hard is this job, really? It’s not like hospice physicians face a lot of job-related pressures. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if members of the medical profession regularly unload their less capable colleagues on hospices.
“My god, Peterson, that’s the sixth patient you’ve lost this week! You do know you’re supposed to keep the patients alive, don’t you? And that last guy only came in to ask for directions, for crying out loud. Well that’s it, I’m sending you to the hospice wing. That should be one place even you can’t foul up too badly.”
I mention all this only to bring up the remarkable case of Pulitzer Prize-winning humor columnist Art Buchwald, who entered hospice care this past February. After having one of his legs amputated below the knee because of poor circulation caused by acute kidney failure, the 80-year-old Buchwald decided to discontinue dialysis treatments and face his final “deadline.”
Buchwald announced the decision in an NPR interview, which resulted in a remarkable outpouring of affection. He received more than 150 letters supporting his decision, only some of which came from other humorists asking for the names of the editors at the papers that carry his column.
During the few weeks Buchwald was expected to last, his hospice room replaced Morton’s Steakhouse as THE place to be for Washington’s elite, as throngs of D.C.’s most powerful politicians, media personalities and bigwigs stopped by to pay their respects. Figuring, “What the hell, I’m dying anyway,” Buchwald gorged himself on such long-forbidden pleasure as McDonalds hamburgers, Haagen-Dazs and corned beef sandwiches.
But then, much to the dismay of anyone who had chosen his name in an office celebrity death pool, Buchwald didn’t die. His kidneys started working again, turning whatwas supposed to be a three-week death sentence into a relaxing six-month vacation. I knew having powerful friends could help you stay out of jail, but cheating the Grim Reaper? I swear, Art must also have compromising photos of Bill Gates in bed with Karl Rove, Oprah and a team of mules.
Anyway, this past week Buchwald checked out and flew off to Martha’s Vineyard, where he plans to work on a book about the hospice experience. As a longtime fan of Buchwald’s work, I’m delighted for him and wish him continued good health. That said, I would also like to encourage him to write a letter to the American Medical Association about his hospice doctor.
Because that guy is totally incompetent.
Examiner columnist Malcolm Fleschner would like to reassure Mr. Buchwald that there’s no rush on that list of editors’ names.
