There is a Limbo, despite the Catholics' decommissioning it. Pope Benedict XVI closed it down years ago, but it remains. There, behind closed doors, is the undisturbed dust of ages and the near-misses of all of Man's epochs.

There's no longer the crying of unbaptized babies heard from beyond its doors. But there can still be heard the ululation of unfulfilled dreams, the howl of unrequited loves, and the anguished grunts of insincere promises. Time has no meaning there, and so there presents the paradox that one day... one day...

One day, the dreams of the incapable will be fulfilled; the loves of those who grieve missed opportunities will be consummated; and the chagrin from empty, unkept promises will be replaced by hope and redemption.

For those who lock themselves behind the doors--from the inside--like the one blue sock that is desperately clinging in the drying machine for dear life, with a solemnity as transient and fragile as electrostatic energy, for those who have just one final spark to give--for those who should consider using that spark to unlock the doors instead of remaining so negatively charged...for them there will be the actualization of rejoining life's wardrobe.

I loose myself in my memories, lifetimes ago, remembering all the good times with my mother and grandmother, my sweet children when they were younger, days spent out in the pasture with my horses.

Falling asleep to the sound of birds and horses grazing on a warm summer day, the breeze playing with my hair.

Remembering the scent of freshly cut alfalfa hay, and freshly turned garden soil. These are my favorite places, and I visit them in my memories especially when I feel lost.

Loneliness is dark. It's cold. It's painful.

And it feels like it'll never go away.

But my Old Life promised me its return, and that's what keeps me going.

As time goes on, people fall out of my life the way snow falls out of the sky.

My flowers are withering away, and my branches feel bare...

When the only hands that can hold me are my own, I think of the hands that once held me and suddenly I feel wistful but also a little more warm.

...

At last, I return to the chiming bells, the stacks of books, and the rustling papers in a zoo full of children who feel too big for the cages of their own body.

Life floods back into me, and I start to remember that there are hands to catch me when I fall.

I will admit I began with a preconception. With being a practising Christian, I'd initially wanted to respect the sanctity of life. We were, I always believed, invincible until the Lord said otherwise and called us home. It wasn't our place to preempt His decision, or so I thought until my former wife died. That ended thinking of generalities. From now on, this is not about the concept of dying with dignity. It's about how I would arrange this for my own death. Let's begin with some background.

First, I should tell you that the circumstances around my former wife's illness dictated we move to a retirement home. This home you should know was not the Hollywood version with its vibrant and attractive if aging people who still want to dance, play golf and make love. It was instead a warehouse for the very old and tired but not yet terminal. They were instead people with not a lot going on in their lives. While their hearts, lungs and money had yet to give out, many would merely sit around, filling in time, not doing a lot. I doubt they were actually ready to die but I couldn't help wonder, why bother?

Second, it changed my mind about drugs. Her cancer hurt like hell and as the chemo wore down, she needed relieve from the pain. That didn't come from the opioids, dispensed like M&M's by her doctors. Those left with a swollen gut and a mind made of cotton batting. For any hope of clarity and comfort as she died, she needed street-bought cannabis. And after a lifetime of keeping the law, do you think I cared if buying it was illegal?

Next came the urgent writing of her will and what to do about heroic measures. Here I was helped. I'd recently witnessed a friend who refused to give up, absorbing all sorts of expensive treatment while enduring all sorts of pain, and to no good purpose. It hardly extended her life, and it didn't seem that dignified. This led to an easy decision. For my wife back then and for me in the future, there'd be no heroic measures. Once it became obvious that death was inevitable, please don't interrupt the process.

Still that was then and now I must deal with my new situation. I'm still in good health but at my age, death is an ever present fact. I must provide instructions. I have a new someone in my life, and she will be my advocate provided she survives me. However,if she should go first, I need a second advocate, and that presents a problem.

My lawyer can execute my will and any related financial matters but is bared from making medical decisions. I have no children of my own, and it happens that I'm an immigrant. There's little now left of my original family but I have a niece who I would trust in this role. However, she does not live on this continent, and a medical advocate must be accessible. Should I not be able to make an informed decision, somebody has to act for me. If not, I will get to hang around while nature takes its course. That's too hard on the young. One: It ties up the will. Two: It costs a fortune in taxes.

Mental health should not be an issue. I know our law makers are struggling to deal with younger people with mental health issues and seeking assisted suicide. These may not be terminal illnesses. They could get better, leading extensive and productive lives. I wish then well but that's not an issue for me. I'm old and I have a good attitude. I'm not likely to have a strictly mental condition needing assisted dying. If I think my life's not worth living, it will be because I'm right.

Again, it's no issue with with most end-of life illnesses, stroke perhaps excepted. I'm expecting I'll be aware of my situation and able to make an informed decision. My problem is getting dementia without having an advocate.

Again, it depends on what dementia. Luey Body can be fast, so may not need any intervention. Alzheimer's however can hang on for years, the person not being in pain, using up resources but no one placed to make a decision. That I would hate. Last, there's Parkinson's, which terrifies me. However, if it also makes me incompetent, how would I get out of it?

Back now to the original question. How do I construct a legal document and appoint a suitable advocate for the possible situation where I wish to die with dignity but have lost the power to give that decision? If you want to know, I have already begun the process of working this out. I am talking to people and doing research so wish me luck.

I don’t know if “fighting” is the correct term I would use, however I am as much as i can trying to convince as many people as possible that hate and indifference, and division by belief is detrimental to your human condition. Love conquers all but one has to understand to love one another is to accept humility and be humble and forgiving.

Being compassionate and having understanding with apathy is what we need more of in this world.

Why is there so much greed and division among men and unwillingness

to help others who are in such dire need? Trust? Yes.

Stop thinking in such tiny circles with respect to religion and traditions.

Do you realize how many cultures have very similar views and traditions, they just call them by different names because of their language!

Religions all are very similar, they are divided by men who want to control people!

I am still studying other cultures around the world, but I see so many similarities in people and places.

My heart wants peace and unity with understanding to replace war and arrogance of man.

This is my passion and my drive.

By and large, they were on the march to defend their Motherland, because each of them was a Soldier and God was with each of them…

Well, specifically, their combat mission was to climb the hill, gain a foothold there and prevent the forward movement of advancing enemy troops. So, on they went, upward, in a march column, united by the common mission, duty, orders.

However, at climbing up, under their individual helmets, there spun personal thoughts or, rather, fragmentary thoughts clippings, different by each one, about that a whopper goal scored Barcelona at the last semi-finals, the sock in the right boot should be neaten tighter before the bitch fucks up the foot to bleeding, tell the younger brother to better look after the horse, but that girl from the parallel class at the prom, in her pink blouse, she's real cute and the smile she gave was a personal smile really, like, a promise, a sort of…

On the march each one loops thru the rosary of his personal clippings, while outwardly nothing but heavy breaths, up to hoarse wheezes, desultory boot treads are heard, yours and of your comrades.

So they marched up not knowing that the coffee cup drunk to dregs at the bottom had already been put aside, the fingers straddled the sheeny mouse in the dormant calm of control room swathed snug and evenly with the hum of computer technology…

The drone in the sky left the stand-by hover and took the tack for dropping a cluster bomb…

They did not do their orders, the mission fell through, they died on the march. All of their platoon. 25 GI's…

Later their parents will post shots of the boys in fatigues or parade crap on Facebook.

‘Help find the missing person!’

Forlorn hope. Everyone who knew the guy in the pic lay around him in riddled camouflage rags with stains darker than the darkest khaki, jagged holes torn thru greenish helmets.

All of the platoon…

Thoughts dried up, the bitch of a sock does not bother anymore, the bay horse Booyan crunches the bleak autumnal grass, Barcelona scatters for training in the soccer field, the cute girl, not in a pink blouse, wearing no smile, steps into a subway car, the operator hands the shift over to his partner…

...oftener and oftener they blame me for my heartless callosity. I do hope it's there after my efforts to strangle out any empathy manifestations in me, otherwise my heart would have burst since long in useless tatters.

Yet, even that way, by the end of day, the pulsing muscle feels squeezed so nastily…

Condone me, boys... here am I imploring you... let at least a single one... beg you for forgiveness…