Canny Ways to Kill Yourself

Be more bunny

Photo of the first page of The Tale of The Flopsy Bunnies, author’s own

I would not jump into deep water because I hate to be cold and being cold is not the last sensation I would like to feel before I die. Plus, I don’t like water up my nose.

I would not throw myself in front of a train because of the poor train driver. And I’ve never wanted to be sliced like a ham or mashed like a potato.

I would not ask my son to put a pillow over my face because my son would get in trouble.

I would not cut or bleed or hang. I would not want to disfigure my body, which has served me well.

And a damp duvet doesn’t work. I tried it innocently on my husband, but he was still alive the next morning. There wasn’t enough dampness to percolate into his bones.

A nice, warm, deep sleep appeals. First La petite mort, then La grande mort…

I haven’t gone all dark. Just all pragmatic. My father, who lives six thousand miles away in a place called Vancouver Island, has dementia. His sister has dementia. His mother died of dementia. His brother died of Parkinson’s.

To say my lineage is chilling, is disturbing, is dystopian, is an understatement. I fear the barrel I am staring down.

Dementia is the great scourge of our age. Someone called it ‘a disease of the family.’ You…