Life at № 42 by E.M. Coutinho
…the silk curtains are up, and there’s music playing. The lighting is my lighting. Moody. The wind, the one that seems to have been following me from continent to continent has finally found me again. Occasionally the curtains dance. I feel like myself again.
There’s another terrible story in the news concerning a fight on advanced directives. The wife and doctors say one thing, the terribly religious parents say another. Monsieur de la J. told me that in France a public statement of intent, or a handwritten letter, would have avoided the entire mess. So here’s mine:
I, in the event of a contretemps, refuse any and all means of being kept alive artificially. Thus far I’ve had a most spectacular time and I refuse to have that tarnished by anyone else’s egocentrism. I don’t want to be filmed drooling or have a fool trying to make my eyes follow a balloon. The only person I trust to make any decision regarding my health is Mike Gwilym. A handwritten and signed copy of this note can be found in my safe, in my house at 42 Rue de Strasbourg.