Older people worry about becoming a burden upon others.
Or so says the Irish Times.
I positively relish the idea of being a burden. Having spent a life slaving away paying taxes to support the idle, the workshy and the politicians, and making great sacrifices so that the daughter can have an education, it is now my time. It is time for me to sit back and reap the rewards and let others look after me for a change.
And 65% are uncomfortable with the idea of living in a nursing home? That presumably means 35% are confortable?
I am not uncomfortable with the idea of a nursing home. Oh no! It is way beyond uncomfortable. I abhor the idea. It is up there with having to live in New York or constantly listening to Daniel O’Donnell – sheer fucking Hell on Earth.
I could not even contemplate living in a place where I am told I cannot smoke or enjoy any of life’s little pleasures; a place where I am either placed in a chair to stare at a blank wall all day or am forced into “communal activities” like a singsong around the piano or a game of bingo in the recreation room; a place where I have to “abide by the rules” and life to a pattern set down by others. That is not in my plan.
My vision of the future is simple. My only wish is to drive through my later years at top speed, with the roof down and the radio blaring. If I have a prang, I expect people to pick me up, dust me off and send me on my way again. God knows I have picked up enough people in the past without a word of thanks so now it’s my turn.
Ideally, the end will come as I am belting along doing the ton, and singing my head off to the sounds of the seventies. There will be an explosion and ball of fire – the ultimate blaze of glory.
The idea of sitting in a wheelchair, doped up to my eyeballs, gasping for a smoke and just sitting waiting for the Grim Reaper fills me with dread.
I’d rather slit my wrists.