Advance Directive

Contemporary story
On

Advance Directive

My name is John Price AD, and I have to decide if someone lives or dies. That's my only job, that's why I'm here, that's my goddamned raison d'etre, pardon my French.

If this particular person hadn't popped a clot out of his heart and got it lodged in his brain, subsequently wound up on the stroke ward of the local District General with no movement in his right side and not much in the way of consciousness either, I wouldn't be here. Literally.

I can't go and touch this poor bastard, can't hold his hand or shake his shoulder myself, can't try and reach him physically. But I've got a whole shed load of different camera views from my little room, and I can see it's pretty much a hopeless case. He hasn't really woken up, not since he's been brought in. Sometimes his eyes flicker open and stare blankly at the camera on the left – not to the right, I'm not even certain he's really aware of what right means anymore – sometimes he moans or cries. But there isn't much light behind those eyes, that's for sure. They're feeding him by a tube that goes down his nose into his belly, because the muscles in his throat don't work properly anymore, and if he ate anything, half of it would probably wind up in his lungs.

All in all, the guy's in a pretty shitty state, as I say.

But it's a tough call to make, tough as hell.

That's what I'm here for. That's what he wanted, what I wanted I should say.

That's why I was constructed, from his brain twenty years back, when it was young and optimistic, and didn't have a big gaping chunk of necrotic white matter rotting away on one side like a worm in an apple.

It's tough waking up one day and realising you're not real.

It's even tougher seeing what you've become, and then having to decide whether to pull the plug.

Karen's not really supposed to talk to me – that's one of the rules – but I can watch her, and she knows I'm here. She was the one who persuaded John Price – the real John Price, that is; not John Price AD, i.e., me – she was the one who persuaded him to have the advance directive made.

I can remember it clear as glass, of course I can, just as clear as I can remember every other significant event of my simulated life. It was around the time her father was dying. He didn't have a stroke, he had dementia, but hell, same difference at the end, really. We went to see him most days for what seemed like forever, but it was probably only a couple of months. Most of the time he didn't even recognise her, didn't even register her presence. Sometimes he cried out and talked to people who weren't there. Most of the time he just blinked, looking confused and kind of hurt, then got on with the business of pissing and shitting himself.

Karen wanted them to pull the plug, but they couldn't, of course. They could withdraw some treatment, they told us, but it was another thing entirely to stop feeding him, stop giving him fluids.

It wasn't their decision to make, they told us, and it wasn't Karen's, either.

"Bullshit," said Karen, "I was his little girl, for Christ's sake, he raised me and changed me, I was closer to him than anyone, you think I don't know he would have hated this?"

But it wasn't in their hands or ours, and it took several long weeks for him to die. When he started coughing up green phlegm and struggling to breath, Karen was so happy.

Right about that time, the whole advance directive thing was getting fashionable, at least if you could afford it, and we weren't doing so bad.

So we got scanned, we both did.

And that's how come I'm here, watching myself live like a vegetable, live through the thousand and one electronic windows of my digital cage.

I wouldn't want to go on, if that was me, I keep catching myself thinking. And then I realise, shit, that is me!

This whole damn situation is just too fucking weird.

 

Karen brings the children, and that's weird as hell, too.

Tommy was only four when John Price was scanned, and Grace was just a faint swelling around my (his) wife's belly. Now my kids are young adults; I missed their whole lives. I can kind of recognise Tommy, the tilt of his chin or something. And I can see myself in Grace, too; our eyes are the same.

I try and imagine what it must have been like, watching them blossom and grow. I have access to a whole library of videos and photographs, birthdays and holidays and so on, but it's not the same, of course it isn't. I review these archives, try to feel some connection to these children, but it's like grasping mist; and I feel like I'm spying on them, too. Are they really mine? Sort of. Yes. No. I'm not sure.

Tommy holds John's left hand – they keep the right one under the blankets because it's horribly swollen and stiff, don't ask me why – and gets excited when the hand twitches back. It doesn't mean shit. I can see it doesn't mean shit. This poor bastard might as well be dog food, might as well be a fucking jellyfish for all the awareness of his surroundings he has. But all Tommy can see is that his Dad squeezed his hand, and suddenly there's a treacherous glimmer of hope in his face.

Karen strokes her/our son's head, and looks straight at me through one of my cameras. Her eyes are hard. What is that there? Defiance? Resentment? Hate?

 

I take my time to come to my decision – shit, I'm not gonna rush into killing myself, am I? – but there's only one way I can jump, really.

I wouldn't want this, and I'm based on him.

Ergo, John Price would want the plug pulled. Case closed.

I log into the system, and enter my choice.

Except, it turns out the case isn't closed at all.

Karen knew which decision I'd come to – she had lived with me for close on twenty years; even after the divorce there was some contact, or at least, that's what the records give me to understand. The point is, she knows how I think (or maybe that should be thought?), and she had an objection order in place just waiting for me.

Which means, this is not going to be a clear cut case of me saying my future self would want to pop his clogs, and then vanishing myself in a puff of evaporating electrons.

If I want me dead, I'm going to have to fight for it.

 

I can't get over how real this all feels. Just like real life. My lungs move, fill with air. I can hear sounds, taste and smell and touch things. And the so-called 'real' world can see me, too. We're just separated by an endless sequence of thin glass sheets, that's all. I'm trapped in a cage made up of all the computer screens in the world.

Karen is in front of me, standing behind what looks like a thin glass window. Up till now we haven't been able to talk to one another. Now that the case is going to the courts, the rules are different.

I don't have to justify my decision to kill John Price. Of course I don't. That's not the moot point. As his walking, talking advance directive, I have complete powers of advocacy over his life. I had them from the moment it became doubtful if he would ever regain a significant degree of consciousness, at which point my files were dusted off and my simulated self was switched on.

No, Karen couldn't make a case around whether I'm making the right decision or not. That wouldn't wash at all.

What she can do – has done – is to attack my right to existence at all.

"People change," she tells the jury, "When you leave this hearing today, you won't be the same people you were when you arrived this morning. Every experience changes you. Everything you learn, everything you see and hear, every event in your life, however marginal, all build up in you, changing you. We are, all of us, in a constant state of becoming."

It's obvious where she's going with this. Other people have tried similar things in similar cases. Sometimes it has worked, sometimes it hasn't.

"That simulation of my ex-husband that you can see standing just behind the TV screen is not my ex-husband," she goes on, "It's a simulation of the man John was twenty years ago. The fact that as of this moment no law exists that automatically nullifies advance directives after a given amount of time has elapsed – and one could argue that even five years would be too long a time – the fact that no such law exists is just one example of how poorly thought out and bound in law the whole science of simulated advance directives has been, and continues to be."

Karen was always good at talking. She's better than she was when I knew her, much better. I wonder what the woman I love has been doing with herself these past twenty years to get so much more confident, so much smoother.

That's something else that complicates the situation, by the by.

I love her.

I can't help it. John loved her when he was scanned, so I love her now. The fact that she's put on some weight and has more grey in her hair than brown doesn't change a thing.

I love her. I love her, and she hates me.

It's my turn to talk now.

I address the jury, not Karen. Matter of fact, I can't even look at Karen. I can't stand to see the contempt in her eyes.

"Karen Price is trying to convince you not only that I'm not really real, but also that I am an inaccurate simulation of the man I was based on," I begin. I am struggling to keep my voice steady, struggling not to notice the way Karen is looking at me.

"I can't attempt to argue the first charge – though I can tell you it feels pretty Goddamn real – but I'll give the second my best shot. Yes, everyone changes as they go through life, of course they do," I carry on, "But that doesn't mean that we become different people, not literally. Elements within us change, but the core of us does not. I'm here because John Price didn't want to go on living if he ended up as a vegetable. That wasn't something John changed his mind about. If he had done, he could have logged into his account and deleted me with the click of a button. The fact that he didn't means that, despite twenty years of life experience existing between him and me, we are still essentially the same person."

Karen says some more after that, then I go again, but the thrusts of our arguments have already been laid out, and it's basically a matter of recapitulation, of trying to win the jury over with different ways of saying the same thing.

After a while, a bell goes off, and we have a recess.

 

Karen asks to see me privately during the break, and I hesitate for the whole of about a second before clicking the button and accepting the request. Big mistake.

She asks me directly to drop my decision, to resign my position as advocate, to let John Price live.

"Karen, can't you see that he doesn't want to live?" I ask her, "I wouldn't want to, and I am him, for Christ's sake!"

"You arrogant prick," says Karen, "Don't talk as if you're really him. You're not him. You're nothing but lines of code churning away in a motherboard somewhere. When this farce is over someone will press a button, and that's that, you'll be gone, no ashes, no funeral, because you're not real. And I'll tell you something else, I hope to hell the person who gets to press that button is me."

"Shit Karen, when did you get so fucking bitter?" I say, because something is breaking in me, "You were never like this before. Never nasty like that, never so fucking nasty."

I realise my voice is breaking, too, and the tears running down my face are obscuring the video screens. They even simulated the damn tears right.

When I look up again, something has changed in Karen's face. I think maybe she's crying, too.

"Jesus, John, don't you think this is hard for me, too?" she whispers, "To see you again, to see how you were, before things went wrong…"

She trails off, then starts up again.

"You look exactly like he did," she says, "You look like him, sound like him. The way you talk…It's like meeting a ghost. It's just like meeting a ghost."

Then she puts one hand out and touches the screen. I reach out to her, but all I can feel is cold glass.

"The kids…Tommy…he can't bear to see his father go like this." Karen is not quite looking at me as she speaks, "There was a lot of bad stuff between them, at the end. After the divorce, things got pretty messy. If he was to go now…look, maybe John won't wake up. Maybe he won't. But if he just hangs on a little longer, maybe that'll give Tommy the chance to…I don't know. To say some things, even if there's no one listening. To make peace with himself, or…or something."

I can feel my resolve caving in. I love her. How can I say no to her? She wants me to hold off on my decision on account of her/my son.

I run a hand through my hair.

"Look," I say, "Look, OK, I'll hold off. For the moment. If Tommy needs some time, then OK, we'll give him some time."

Also, it'll give me some time, too. I suddenly realise that maybe I'll have a chance, not only to get to know the woman Karen has become, but also to get to know my kids. To get to know Tommy.

"Thanks, John," she says. She half-smiles at me. I nod, and kill the connection on the computer screen.

Her face flashes and is gone, replaced by a familiar view of John's hospital room. I watch his chest rise and fall, slow, laboured. A doctor comes and stabs his good arm with a little needle so they can put another bag of fluid up, to keep him from dehydrating and dying while I refuse to make the decision that he would want, but that the woman I love does not. His hand jerks a few times, and the doctor calls a healthcare assistant to pin the arm down while he gets the needle in position.

His eyelids flutter briefly, then still.

 

I'm not scared of dying. I know that sooner or later I'm going to be pulling the plug on John, and when I do that I'll basically be pulling the plug on myself too. Us advance directives do not enjoy the right to live beyond the souls who made us.

There's a catch, though, to stop ADs from choosing to keep their "real" counterparts alive as long as possible, just so that they can go on "living" (in this weird, digital sense) themselves as long as possible.

You get a couple of weeks to make your choice, then either way, that's that buddy, time's up for you.

Say I decided to say, OK, John Price would want to go on living, don't pull the plug. I'd make my choice, throw my two cents in the ring, then I'd be switched off, just the same as if I'd decided to pull the plug. Goodbye John Price AD. The only difference is, if I decided to keep him alive, I could be re-awoken again if there were any change in his condition. If he deteriorated, for example, say he had a second stroke or something, then I'd be brought back to reassess, to see if I felt the situation had changed significantly.

But am I afraid of dying? Why the hell should I be? I don't even really exist, as people are so fond of pointing out. Truth is, I am a ghost. The real person is either dead or dying, depending on your point of view. Fuck it, if I think about these things too long, my head starts to hurt. And that pain feels pretty Goddamn real, thank you very much.

There are other things I'd rather spend these precious remaining ghost-moments on than a killer of a headache. Like watching my son, for example.

He comes to see John most days, more often than Karen does.

He mostly just sits by the bedside and doesn't say much. Sometimes he holds John's good hand. Once or twice he tried reading to him, but I think he felt self conscious about it, and he didn't do it for long. The book he tried reading him was "Flowers For Algernon", a science fiction book from a couple of hundred years ago. I remember that book, I used to love it when I was Tommy's age. It's about a guy called Charlie who has learning difficulties. He has an operation to make him smart. It works – in fact, he gets super-smart – but then after a while it begins to wear off, and he ends up being even dumber than he was to start with. It's funny, I used to run myself round in circles thinking about who the real Charlie was – was he the idiot or the genius, or who? Which version would he be when he died and went to heaven?

Now that the court case has been resolved, I'm not supposed to talk to Karen or the others again. But it's not an actual law – as Karen said, the law surrounding the use of simulated advance directives is ridiculously lax – and I can't help myself in the end.

"What are you thinking about, Tommy?" I say through a speaker one day, when I can't stand his endless sad silence a moment longer.

He doesn't jump, doesn't even start. It's as if he knew I was there all along – of course he knew I was there, where the hell else would I be? – and was just waiting for me to say something.

He doesn't reply for a long time, and I begin to worry that maybe he won't say anything, that he has decided to follow the rules and not interact with me at all.

"I'm thinking…how did things change to end up like this?" he says eventually, "When I was a little kid, we were so close. I used to have nightmares about what it would be like when you…when he died. I used to get really worked up about it. Then I used to run and hug…him…I used to hold him so tight. And now, this. Sitting in a hospital room, and not being able to say anything…I'm not even sure the last time I hugged him. We…fought a lot, since the divorce. Since before the divorce, really. So I guess I'm thinking about how point A gets to point B, when there isn't even really a single moment I can point to and say, that's it, that's when things changed."

The silence stretches on.

"Was I a good father?" I ask eventually. I have to.

"Yes. You were." I can see the tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes. "You were a great father. I loved you so much. Whatever happened afterwards, you were a great father."

He gets up suddenly, leans forwards and kisses John on the forehead. Then he turns around without another word and walks away.

 

Karen comes to the hospital the next day, but she doesn't come to see John, she comes to see me.

"Tommy says he spoke to you," she tells me, "I think it did him good. I don't think he's going to visit again."

There is a long pause. I know what that means. I know why she's here.

I wonder if I should ask the question I am dying to ask. Is it fair? But then, I'm going to be gone soon, probably in a few hours at the most. Why the hell shouldn't I ask her?

"Could it have been different, Karen?" I say, "I guess…thing's looked so rosy. Did it have to end up this way?"

"You shouldn't forget, we had good times too. A lot of them." She wipes the corner of her eye. "Things run down in the end, one way or another. Things end."

"I wouldn't have fucking let things get this bad!" The words jump out, before I can call them back. I should stop, it isn't fair to talk to her like this, but I can't rein myself in.

"How could he have hurt you all like this, ruined everything, fucked everything up so royally? I want to kill him. I want to kill him, Karen. I want to switch us both off."

She smiles so sadly. She kisses my screen. Now there's a smear of lipstick on the glass, and the world is blurred.

"It's time to go, John," she says, "But please, don't do it in hate. Do it, but not in hate. There were good times, I promise you. You did good things."

She leans over the body in the bed, and kisses him on the forehead, too.

Then she stands up, shakily, and walks out of the room.

She is right. If she can forgive him, why shouldn't I?

I type the code in, and this time there is no counter-instruction waiting there from Karen.

John is about to die.

I wonder if computer simulations go to heaven.

After all, does God really give half a damn about the difference between a neurone and a diode?

Maybe there's every version of every possible person in heaven. All the people we could have been if we went left instead of right, or had one less beer before driving home, if we had seen things through rather than giving up on them.

Something flickers, and all the screens go dark.

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Average: 5 (1 vote)

Comments

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Another amazing story!
I would never have thought that a preoccupation with what happens at the point of death, could be so lacking in morbidity. But Jamie, you have done it again!
I am going to put your novel on my Christmas list.
Thank you.

A. daffodil

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Thought provoking. Makes you look at things retrospectively, was the right path taken?
Could I have done things better? Made things better for everyone I knew?
Do we all get this window in the end?

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I just finished reading this story and
tears are running down my face as I type
this response. I loved the idea of the
story from the get-go. As soon as the
situation was made apparent I was
immediately led to thinking about the
recent resurgence in media coverage
regarding Right To Die legislation. Both
me and my fiance are of the same mind in
that we dont ever want to be kept alive
on machines, dragging our pitiful
existence and the suffering of the
surviving partner out, over an
unnecessarily long time. Regardless of
law we have also agreed that if one of
us asks the other to help them to die,
we are to do all that we can to help
allow the other to go with the dignity
we deserve.

This story probably made me cry because
it made me fear the potential fall out
of a relationship somewhere down the
line, just like the relationship between
John and Karen. I could really relate to
the way the simulated version of John
despised his future real self for having
allowed the relationship to fail because
we all enter into marriage with the hope
that it really will be forever. Marriage
is a solemn oath based on the premise of
how two parties are feeling at that
exact moment in time, hoping that they
will still feel the same way and be
willing to uphold those same vows in the
future.

AD John is much like a person who is
just about to get married, suddenly
being asked to jump ahead in time and
make a decision to dissolve said
marriage, whilst feeling all the love
people have in the first flush of a
relationship. The story did force me to
take a bit of a look down the line at
what may happen to me and my own partner
in future. Its impossible to predict
what might happen, but reading the words
of AD John imploring Karen to tell him
where he went wrong, made me think about
how we should all consider that approach
during our current relationships; always
trying to remain honest and caring, with
empathy, love and integrity so that we
never have to look back at our past and
wonder where did it all go wrong?

This story was well written, with
convincing dialogue, an immediately
gripping plot and themes which will stay
with me over the next few days. Im
going to discuss it with my other half
as were incredibly open about
discussing our relationship and Id love
for him to read the story himself. I
also just want to tell him, as I do
every day, that I love him and cant
imagine a life without him.

Thank you for writing such a beautifully
poignant and thought provoking story.

[email protected]

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This is very well written, and the story is one that has
stayed in my mind for a few days now. I really felt like I
was there, watching the AD talk to his wife/ex-wife,
and it made me really sad. I cant imagine being a past
AD version of myself - thrust into the current time and
given that gift/curse of seeing things in what would be
the future for me. (Not sure if this makes sense, but its
what I felt...)

Permalink

All of the reviews are positive, and for that reason alone I hesitate to post mine. But everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, (without, I hope, being excoriated, insulted, and called names...at least in THIS website.) And so I respectfully offer mine.

This is a classic case of the overuse of the "f" word detracting from the story, and degrading the quality of the writing. Yes, yes, I know that the ADs dialogue is patterned after "real life" and real persons actually sprinkle their conversation with the word, both in private conversations and in public (to where at times one can see a mother in a nice restaurant covering her childrens ears as she asks to be transferred to a different table.)

Before someone writes in and says I am a prude or a "religious nut," let me reveal that I spent almost twenty-five years in the U.S. Navy, and like most sailors, every other word I uttered was the f-word (among others.) BUT ONLY WITH OTHER MALES, and never in public, where I could be overheard by civilians and/or children. I can say with authority that the only group that uses the f-word more than sailors are U. S. Marines, God blessem. But the day I walked down the gangway for the last time, I used the f-word for the last time...yes, I just stopped. I simply matured, and my vocabulary was sufficiently broad to where I didnt need the f-word to make my point or convey my emotions.

But John, you say, this is gritty, it is highly emotional, this is "real life," as many would say. Well, I would reply, so is the act of defecation, with its accompanying odors, sounds, varying physical consistencies, degrees of discomfort while passing, and what happens when one reaches for the paper only to discover there is none. You see how this perfectly natural, "real-life," gritty act could be included in a story such as "Advance Directive," especially if a character does some deep thinking while engaged in relieving himself? Many a momentous decision has been made "on the throne."

But John, you argue, although it is a natural and necessary daily human act, it is disgusting, and a vivid recounting of the act by a character in this story is certainly not necessary to the telling of the story! To which I say, you have just made my argument for the omitting of the f-word from an otherwise interesting story such as this one. So, thank you.

Okay, my defenses are up, so you who disagree and are wont to name-call, insult, etc., give it your best shot. Im ready for you!

Thank you for the opportunity to express my opinion.

Permalink

From the author:
I just wanted to say thanks to everyone for their comments and for their feedback.
In particular, I wanted to offer a brief response to John, in regard to the comments he made about swearing in this story
First of all, I want to say that I absolutely agree that everyone is entitled to their opinion, and that I have no intention to excoriate or insult him for his! I think hes raised an interesting issue, and its certainly made me think about how it relates to this story.
Having re-read the story, I am actually inclined to agree, at least to some extent. I think if I was writing this story again now, I would certainly take out some of the swearing. Maybe not all, but some. I dont think the change in impact would be anything other than superficial, I dont think the story would suffer for this.
Im not sure how much I would agree in a wider sense, though. I think there are some stories - and once again, Im not talking about this one, I think John is pretty much right about my over-using swearing in this one - where having some swearing is fine and does add something. Obviously, this can be a totally personal thing - people have different opinions, and thats fine. An example that springs to mind immediately, for me, is Game of Thrones and the sequels - for me, the swearing really does make it feel more gritty, more real, adds something to the story. And I mention this in particular because these stories dont shy away from many other pretty graphic and intense and disgusting things. As a side note, I think provoking an emotional response is one of the jobs of a writer, and disgust is an emotional response. It would be stupid to write a story with the sole purpose of generating disgust, but having some disgust in there - like having a particular instrument in an orchestra in a certain place, at a chosen time - does sometimes add something.
I take the point about not going into a detailed description of the act of defecation...and its true that I wouldnt usually write about such an act in the way mentioned, but my reason for not choosing to write about this wouldnt be a matter of censorship, it would be about whether its boring or necessary to read about. If there was some reason why this might advance the plot or illuminate something about character, then I wouldnt have a problem with this.
The only other thing I really wanted to mention in response to John, is to promise that I dont tend to go round swearing loudly in public, either! I think not running around in public and swearing loudly is kind of a generally respectful way to behave. I want to be free to write what I want to write, though. Thats my choice, just like its anyones choice to read it, or not. In fact, I think the only thing in the comment that really jarred - for me - was the mention of only swearing in front of other men. I know plenty of women who could swear for their country. I generally dont want to swear in front of someone who would find swearing horribly offensive, regardless of their sex or gender. What does it matter if they are men or women? Arent we equal in that regard?
Anyway, all in all, I wanted to thank John for bringing this issue up, because it really has made me think about the swearing I put into my fiction. Im not going to stop doing it, but I am going to think more carefully about where it should go!
Once again, many thanks for everyones comments and feedback. :-)
Jamie

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Great story; really enjoyed it. Agree the swearing could have been dropped and/or “f##u#” or something like that. Quite frankly I would have enjoyed the story more. With that said, this story impacted me regardless of the dialog. In fact, your writing of the dialog was quite excellent, leaving me wanting more. What about soul? It is breath-life? Is it intelligence, organic and electronic? How does this impact our social norms? Impact our social laws? I was intrigued; could have been a "Star Trek" episode. 4 out of 5 Budweisers.

Permalink

love the premise and love the resolution. Didnt notice the swearing at all - the dialogue all seemed natural to me.
One comment FWIW re: the court case - not really sure what it did for the plot aside from bringing the "old me vs new me" argument in. I think you could have resolved this without the court case, but I really enjoyed the whole thing nonetheless.

Permalink

Really good story! I really enjoyed the concept and story line. Well written stories that make you think and ponder life are always really interesting to me and enjoyable. Will we get to the point in life one day? Hmmmm....

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