Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Fence

I wouldn’t say I’ve had a “great” fall, but you tell me.

I’ve always likened myself to Humpty Dumpty, and not only in appearance. While sitting innocently on a wall (as one does), he fell to pieces. Who knows what pushed him over the edge. Believe it or not, four-score men (and four-score more!) could not make Humpty Dumpty what he was before. I don’t know what a four-score man is, but it’s gotta be less than a five-score man… Am I right, six-score ladies in the back?! 

Sorry. *collar-pull 

No one can put me back together again either, but a team of doctors still insist on trying. I'm in a “difficult” (life or death) situation with limited choices, and none are particularly auspicious. If I were a real person who existed in the world, I would ask my friends or family what they think. Being confined and isolated, I have no regular, non-academically prefixed people, or network to reach-out to for an opinion. 

That’s where you come in. Let me paint a slightly crude, but fundamentally true picture of the situation for you. This is the simplest explanation of each choice. 

I’m terribly unwell. I’m fighting to stay alive until the legislation for MI-SUMC changes- so I don’t have to fall off a wall. I have to weigh the cons of “interventional treatment” options, again. If I forgot an important detail, chime-in.

• ECT (electroconvulsive therapy: electrodes, an electrical current to induce a seizure every other day- as an outpatient- for approximately 4-6 weeks)

• rTMS (repetitive Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation: coil, magnetic field/electrical current - targets the outer layers of my brain by magnetic pulses, tapping on my head every day- as an outpatient- for approximately 4-6 weeks)

• DBS (Deep Brain Stimulation: electrodes inside my brain via brain surgery- holes in the skull and a neurostimulator implanted under the skin of your chest).

Each treatment aims to modulate brain activity in different ways, but doing so- through ECT at least, no longer provides the relief I need. What I’m doing now (palliative psychiatric care) isn’t sustainable. Not even close. I have the best doctors there are. Nothing is working. 

It’s worth mentioning that the ECT and rTMS have to be maintained every four to six months. It’s not as many treatments, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll be doing it again, as I am now, and so many times before. It’ll never end. DBS has follow-up appointments (and recovery time). Sometimes it takes four to six months after the surgery for symptoms to improve. Despite knowing that, throughout that window of time, when I’m bald, with electrodes in my brain, a chip in (and likely on) my shoulder, and still just as sick as I am now? Knowing me, I’ll rip the chip out of my collarbone, and cut the wires from under my skin. 

I don’t know what to do. I shouldn’t even be here. I was never supposed to be this old. 

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During the pandemic, people were furious about how our health was being governed, and demanded to know if the relayed information was  fact-checked. Regarding MI-SUMC, the perspective of factually informed, ethical, medical professionals is being ignored. Instead, we’re trusting the arbitrary and paternalistic rules imposed by a government who changes them at whim, while discounting the Canadian Psychiatric Association’s input. How about some mental health self-awareness? I suppose it’s because serious mental illness is only an epidemic. 

To be fair to politicians, they’ve been very busy mismanaging never-ending money to fund campaigns, PR for their indiscretions, and wars. 

Ironically, when I’m reckless with money, am indiscriminate with sexual relationships, make promises I can’t possibly keep, indulge in the lucrativeness of drugs, fight with everyone, and become disconnected from reality… they lock me in the hospital. Being in does nothing to help me anymore. Indeed, it would make it so much worse, and that’s why it’s not listed in my options. 

If you were me, and these were your only choices to survive, and you were truly teetering on the edge of a wall so imposing that falling from it meant certain death, what might you do? You’re slipping, and can’t steady yourself. You know this faltering won’t last, and waiting for the inevitable micro-misstep is terrifying and exhausting. Your only thread of hope is your federal lawsuit, championing for equal rights. If you should fall before then, you’ll be smashed into little shards- unrecognizable and dangerous to the touch. It’ll hurt. You’ll be all alone. They’ll say you weren’t in your right mind.

How might you manage enough balance until you crawl safely towards love, understanding and respect, faced with these choices? Obviously, it’s a more comprehensive and nuanced situation than I’ve presented, but metaphors aside, what would you pick? Would you try to live the way you are, in constant  torment? Get mini lightning bolts in your brain? Get coils and knocks on your head (you can pick slow or fast intervals- whichever  you can bear)? Or, would you have holes drilled into your skull to install electrodes and a weird implant-control-chip-thing sewn into your shoulder? Any treatment is unlikely to work. That said, I know my doctors wouldn’t suggest anything if they didn’t believe it might.

How would you- in this situation- live, so that you can die?