By Pam Munter
Even as a kid, I always read the obituaries. They can reveal who someone was, at least as seen through the eyes of the survivors. The few selective words serve as a final, if biased, summary. But I am inevitably waylaid by the occasional sentiment, “She loved life.” What does that mean, exactly? Does it mean that she was angry about dying? That she fought against it, trying all remedies available? That she had a relentlessly cheerful personality? More often, I suspect, it’s a projection. It means the family felt loved by her, and that she persistently and lovingly gave her time and energy to making them happy.
When I read those words, I realize that I don’t think I love life. I am at best neutral. Life is OK. I do all the things I’m supposed to do in terms of taking care of myself, but not because of love. I want to avoid complications, things that would stop me from doing what I want to do. Most of the people in my family have died at an early age of some form of heart disease. Knowing my genetic destiny, I’ve lived a preventive maintenance lifestyle.
In spite of all my righteous habits, however, I’m facing a difficult choice. I’ve been informed I have four clogged cardiac arteries, one severely, the one the sexist semanticists call “the widow maker.” In the bad old days, I would have had bypass surgery or at least stents. But now there’s a miracle drug, an injectable given every two weeks. It’s supposed to lower my LDL and prevent the encroaching plaque on the artery walls from moving or breaking off into the blood stream, which would cause immediate cardiac arrest. Truth is, it merely keeps things stable without removing the underlying pathology. The undetonated grenade still resides within. This miracle drug is so new; most insurance won’t cover it. It’s about $14,000 a year for now.
Here’s the rub: I probably could pay for that. Yet this seems an irresistible existential decision point. If I don’t take the drug, it’s very likely my atherosclerosis will get worse. The plaque will grow and I could eventually drop dead from a heart attack or suffer a major stroke. If I really “loved life,” taking the medication would be a no-brainer, wouldn’t it? But I don’t, so it isn’t. I’m six months away from my 75th birthday. Enough of a life? I’m neither actively suicidal nor depressed. But maybe I’m done.
Many decades ago, comedian Jack Benny did a sketch on the radio where he was held up by a thief on the street. “Your money or your life,” the bad guy growled. The famously parsimonious Benny evoked laughter for many minutes as he remained silent. Then he replied,
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”
Me, too, Jack. Me, too.