Helping Me Helping You

This is not an ABBA song. It's just a title for a blog post. Below is the ABBA song, which is not at all what I want to convey at this very moment, but hey, who knows. Someone out there in the vast Interwebs  might be looking for this very ABBA song and those amazing outfits and they will come across this strange blog and read this post.

So, what the Heck is this all about you ask?  Let me tell you.

First of all, I'm a very lazy blogger. (I am not a lazy person. I am currently in grad school, I work and I'm a mom, wife , mother and I volunteer in various capacities.) Anyway, I used to be gung-ho about posting on this blog because I was in the process of building a platform. What's a platform you ask? It is something nonfiction writers need in order to be taken seriously by the publishing world. In other words, gatekeepers wonder if anyone would buy a self-help book from a carpenter that no one has ever heard of? The answer is no. Platform is important.

Even though my platform was more like a step stool, I kept on because I loved hearing people's stories about death and grief. Not because I'm a Morticia Adams wannabe, but because I'm human and other people's stories about being human made me feel less alone in this ridiculously crazy world. And I think it also helped a few others out too. It feels pretty good to facilitate healing, no matter how small or insignificant.

In November, my first book came out. This was a big deal. Not because I got a six-figure advance or an interview with Terry Gross on NPR. It was a big deal because I put myself and my creative work out into the world. OUT INTO THE WORLD where it could be JUDGED. And if you know me, I'm not exactly a social butterfly. I'm the person at a social event that is over in a corner petting the cat or the dog. If there isn't an animal around, I'm by the chips or in the bathroom wiping the sweat from my armpits and thinking about what I'm going to say if someone actually tries to engage in a conversation.Or more realistically, I'm at home convincing myself that social gatherings are no fun and why would I want to attend one in the first place?

Those days are gone. If you've read Death Becomes Us, you know that I've gotten over my fear of people. You still won't find me at a party very often, but I can hold my own in a one-on-one conversation without the assistance of a notebook or a tape recorder.

Which brings me to you, dear stranger who loves ABBA. I need you to do me a huge favor. I need for you to...

1. Buy my book on

Amazon

. You can get the e-book for less than a latte or you can make the paperback commitment and possess a tangible slice of my life. I pinky promise that you'll laugh, cry and want to hug someone.

2. Read the book. Read it while listening to ABBA. (There's a rumor that the story links up perfectly to one of their albums.) Reading is the cheapest way to take a journey without the cost of a passport, a plane ticket or a hotel room.

3. Write a review. I didn't say it had to be a glowing or lengthy review. Heck, you could just give it a star rating. Easy peasy! If you want to write one, be honest and don't fear brevity. Why do I need reviews? I'm after algorithms. The more traffic on my Amazon page, the better. I can't tell you what an algorithm is, but I think I need some. You can read this post by

Kristen Lamb

if you want to have a better understanding.

So, if you've read this blog in the past and it has entertained you, or given you a little bit of help, then please help me.

This was really hard for me to write. I don't like to ask for help, but as Babs once sang...

And don't forget to comment.  Just say "Hey" or "You Suck, Don't tell me what to do Pamela Skjolsvik" or whatever.  I've got rhino skin.

In my next post, I am going to reveal the spoiler from the latest Star Wars.  I hope to enrage the internet. Because, well, bad publicity is better than crickets.

Book Giveaway!

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Goodreads Book Giveaway

Death Becomes Us

by Pamela Skjolsvik

Giveaway ends December 19, 2015.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

Death with Dignity: The Right to Continue to Be the Person You’ve Always Been

By Nora Miller, a volunteer for Death with Dignity. This story first appeared at

www.DeathwithDignity.org

. 

My husband Rick and I talked about Death with Dignity in general terms in 1996 when my mother died in pain and struggling for breath, and then again during the debates and publicity around the 1997 ballot initiative on Oregon’s law. We both agreed we’d prefer to control the conditions of our own deaths.

In early 1999 Rick developed a cough that wouldn’t go away. The diagnosis of metastatic terminal lung cancer in April left no room for doubt or hope for something less final. His first words were, “Now we are going to Alaska.” (Alas, we never made it.) His next words were, “I will be using the Oregon law.” We were fortunate our son and both our families supported his decision, with some regret and a few reservations, but without argument or complaint.

By mid-October, the doctor suggested it was time for hospice. We were able to keep Rick at home. Later that month, Rick made his first oral request under the Oregon Death with Dignity Act, followed by a written request, and the final verbal request in early November. Rick’s oncologist had never received a request before—with the law only two years old, everyone was new at it—but he was reasonable and sympathetic. He agreed Rick was of sound mind, not depressed, and definitely terminal. He wrote the prescription on a cold, rainy Friday in early November, and I drove across Portland to the only pharmacy willing to fill it at the time. Rick told me he thought he’d be a lot sicker when he’d be making the decision to use the prescription. He was, in fact, a lot sicker than he thought. He was having trouble with his voice and with swallowing. He often lost words or used them seemingly at random. He woke up with blinding headaches from a growing brain tumor. He couldn’t walk on his own. He’d become emaciated.

The day he made his decision had been a hard one: he was very tired and weak, and medications had deprived him of his emotional control. He was ready to go. I challenged his intention. I told him he could sleep on it, decide the next day. He was sure. He was calmer than he’d been in weeks, almost jovial, relieved. He needed the control and the ability to choose, and he needed to know that, in the end, we’d have joy and love in the midst of our sorrow. This was a last loving gift we gave each other. I wanted nothing more than to make that possible for him. I’ve never once regretted it.

I’ve often replayed those last weeks, recalling moments where I could’ve or should’ve done something differently. It’s taken me years to understand what I did was what Rick wanted, and to have done anything different would’ve made the process about me and not about him. It was his life and it was his death—he needed the right to decide how it would happen. To provide real dignity in dying, we must unconditionally respect the unique and inherent personhood of the person at the center of the process. Nobody’s Death with Dignity story will be the same as mine.

The dignity people seek in the dying process is unique to them. For some, it’s a time to reconnect with old friends and heal old wounds. Others need a few close friends who can help them address their fears and assess their options. For others still, it means focusing on the narrowing possibility of recovery, of beating the odds. But for every single person who is dying, Death with Dignity means having the right to continue to be the person they’ve always been. I’ll be forever grateful to my fellow Oregonians for making this possible for Rick. I just hope the remaining 47 states join Oregon, Washington, and Vermont and enact similar laws soon. (June 2013 / August 2015)