► Listen to this article.

I write this at 73, in reasonably good health and of reasonably sound mind, my blood pressure perfect, cholesterol controlled, no replacement parts, still panting on the elliptical, still traveling, still skiing, still able to conjure metaphors and compose complex compound sentences. Since I might not have the wherewithal to advocate for myself later and my partner, Arnie, may be dead, and since I have no children to advocate on my behalf, I am stating my wishes now to ensure I will be comfortable and content during my waning years, even if I’m drooling and talking to myself. Please take note of the following:

I hate apple juice. Do not serve me apple juice in a sippy cup or paper cup with a flexi-straw. Orange juice is fine. Or V-8 with a slice of lime. No sippy cups for those either. And can you supply me with Diet Coke? Fountain preferred. I am addicted to Diet Coke even though it has no food value and may be toxic.   

I adore chocolate, pasta, cheese quesadillas, and kale salad dressed with lemon vinaigrette. If I can still chew, include those liberally in my menu selections. Chocolate mousse is likely digestible whether I can chew or not. And fresh fruit smoothies, preferably banana and strawberry. If you feed me pulverized vegetables, I will gag. I’d also appreciate an occasional glass of Pinot Grigio or Prosecco, if those treats are not deemed fatally interactive with my myriad of medications.

Food gets trapped between the molars on the lower left side of my mouth. After you brush my teeth, assuming I’m no longer able, please floss them and use Staino Twins dual-ended interdental brushes to poke out any remaining particles. Otherwise I may develop periodontal issues—I had gum surgery nine years ago—such as pus, tooth loss, and destruction of my jawbone, in addition to the constellation of new physical problems I may develop in tandem with the mental ones. Psoriasis? A prolapsed uterus? A dissected aortic aneurism like the one that afflicted my mom? Multiple myeloma like my dad?

I am highly attractive to insects. Mosquitos, fleas, gnats, and spiders love to bite me. In Belize, on Caye Caulker, I suffered ninety sand flea bites; I counted and photographed them. I scratch bites, sometimes until they bleed, which could cause infection since my immune system is likely compromised. If you wheel me outside to a garden or take me on an excursion to a woodsy environment, which would be a nice change of scenery, spray my skin with insect repellent. Unscented. I do not use scented anything. Artificial scents nauseate me.

Please don’t dress me in yellow, chartreuse, or hospital-green garments. Those hues are not compatible with my skin tone and will make me appear jaundiced. I look best in jewel tones, especially purple.

If possible, arrange for a stylist to color my hair. Use L’Oreal numbers 5.54 (Intense Warm Auburn) and 6.64 (Marigold) to maintain my lively reddish shade; white hair is not attractive with my complexion. And can you apply blush to my cheeks and gloss to my lips so I look more alive than dead? I prefer to keep up appearances despite my diminishing capacity. If friends and family visit, I don’t want them to pity me, be horrified by my decline, or get teary-eyed remembering who I once was.

I like classical music and musicals (during my days as an actress I appeared in West Side Story, Guys and Dolls, and Fiddler on the Roof) as well as the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Credence Clearwater, and other 1960s and 1970s icons. When I was in college, I watched This is Tom Jones on TV in my sorority-house bedroom, lights off, awash in arousal. If you play an occasional “What’s New Pussycat?,” my spirits will lift. As for more contemporary fare, I enjoy Sia, Lady Gaga, and Taylor Swift. I don’t care for rap or techno-funk, but it’s unlikely those genres will be streaming through your facility. Please don’t wheel me into a hallway where I’m subjected to elevator music. I will lose whatever brain cells I have left.

Bear in mind that I’ve always been anxious and obsessive, so if I’m frightened by shadows or wash my hands, wash my hands, wash my hands, it’s not only because I have dementia. I’ve always worried that something bad could happen to me, like losing my mind. A low dose of Lexapro takes the edge off. Or maybe I’ll need something stronger.

In keeping with my anxiety, my muscles are usually rock hard, especially in my neck and shoulders. I like massage. Deep tissue. Often. Please use my money—and it should last until I’m 93—to hire a massage therapist to come to my room and give me massages!

Another quirk: I experience frequent nightmares during which I flail, whimper, moan, or scream. I can’t find my gate at the airport, I can’t find my car in the parking garage, I can’t find a free toilet and I’m desperate to pee, I’m still married to my ex-husband. Aaaaaaaah! If you shake me gently, I will awaken and no longer disturb other residents.

I appreciate how challenging your jobs are, that you’re overworked, underpaid, and must have exquisite patience to deal with aged folks with infirmities. But please be kind, even if I’m not. In my current sentient state, I like to think I’m a gentle, compassionate, respectful person. If, in my decompensated condition, I throw things, hit, bite, or yell; turn paranoid or hallucinate; spit out food, or pee on the floor; please understand I just can’t help it.

One more thing. I’m not in a rush to die. But if I don’t laugh anymore, if I can’t sense a kiss or caress, if I no longer recognize a metaphor, if I’m unable to communicate in any form, feel free to withhold any life-saving measures (DNR attached) and allow me to pass peacefully into the great beyond.

I suspect I won’t know the difference.

Snakeberry Mamas: Words from the Wild

by Mary Alice Dixon

    In Snakeberry Mamas Mary Alice Dixon’s words from the wild conjure an Appalachian landscape of lust, where sex, song, and witchy women charm the reader with chant. From the crossroads of Witcher Way Holler to the waters of Hungry River, these poems carry you into a magic world of owl-women, dandelion girls, and the memories of dead mothers alive in the heartwood of trees. In these liminal places grief makes knife blades of red pickled eggs; a goddess offers salvation in tongue of fire; a hellfire-and-brimstone suffragette shares a recipe for britches with balls. Mary Alice Dixon makes poetry that muses mountains and maps gardens you will never want to leave.

"Mary Alice Dixon casts a luminous eye on the hardscrabble sacred—braiding grief, grit, and grandmotherly magic into song. These are poems of invocation and inheritance, rooted in the red clay and mythos of mountain women who birth themselves from “bloodroot” and "fire.” Dixon writes with fierce tenderness and hard-earned clarity, inviting us into a world where “owl women brush you with wishbones” and “the moon bleeds” our names. This is Appalachian lyricism at its most incantatory, subversive, and deeply alive." — AE Hines, author of Adam in the Garden and Any Dumb Animal

  www.maryalicedixon.com. Available from CharlotteLit (the literary and artistic center of Charlotte, NC)

Find this and more in ArtsMart