After my first round of cancer, one of the toughest questions I had to examine was the DNR. It's not that I wanted my life to be extended beyond all reasonable measures -- it was that I couldn't imagine what may or may not have appeared down some uncertain future road, resulting in "reasonable."

I certainly didn't want my children put in the position of playing God, left to wonder in the future if they'd made the decision I would have made; nor did I want doctors to take that command. After all, I'd argue, what could appear like a coma could just be an extended and much-needed "rest." Ha ha.

So I had to decide, just how much life support is legitimate before someone says enough? If we pay our insurance premiums, shouldn't we be allowed the maximum possible length of time to hope for the better, before the grand creator pulls the plug? And who determines that time?

The likelihood that I'll live up to a point of absolute collapse, (after all these years of fighting cancer), is more than probable, and since I'm speech-impaired, I shouldn't rely upon anyone's skill in reading lips should I try to decide in the moment. That indeed would be a comedy of errors.

But I have witnessed dear friends with cancer face a rapid decline, with death certainly and reasonably "imminent," to have suddenly rebounded and recovered, leaving me all the more confused about who is best qualified to deem death as "imminent?" And if I refuse artificial life support, and if I'm able to get a wink or a nod across that I want to fight, to LIVE, can my caretakers override the order without my signing?

I was watching an episode of "Grey's Anatomy" the other night, where an older woman had been critically ill for two years, had been pronounced dead five times, and miracle after miracle, each time came back. While in a coma, her relatives were gathered by her bedside, frustrated, groaning and complaining to the hospital staff that they were fed up and just hoped for the end. After all, they'd flown around and across the country for two solid years, and they had board meetings to attend, for crying out loud.

Sure 'nuff, she went Code Blue, (their complaints echoing through her head no doubt) and again, after pronouncing her dead, she opened her pearly blues. They weren't happy. Hours later she actually did die, and they fell apart; partly from the guilt of wishing her dead, but mostly because they realized she was gone, completely gone, forever. I know this must stir up some opinions. It sure did for me.

I pray daily that once death's bugle blows, that I can be at home, with my loved ones, my books and good music. No hospitals, no fluorescent lights (oh, how I hate those things), and no beeping machines measuring my vitals, which I hope will just dim, like some candle that's been burning for a long time, that's run out of wax.

Meanwhile, since I'm still here, with heart beating, organs functioning, muscles moving, blood flowing, eyes seeing and ears hearing, I've concluded that should death have plans I cannot change or divert, at least by having a living will, I've taken responsibility for making my wishes known.

Besides, these are tough times and I don't want to use up more than my fair share of electricity (spoken by someone who in the past could never turn all the lights out). Once I signed, and my witness signed, I felt a huge relief. Now I can focus on pretending I'll live to be 100. Just in case I do.

Tip 40: "I'd rather get my brains blown out in the wild than wait in terror at the slaughterhouse," Craig Volk, Northern Exposure, A Hunting We Will Go, 1991.

Geraldine Lloyd is a local artist/writer and can be reached at golloyd123@aol.com

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