overheard in the pharmacy breakroom tonight: pharmasist 1 to 2: would you take a job that offered you 3 times your pay to make a biological agent that would kill people? (good philosophical question, i think ...) pharm 2, after pause: who would i be killing? 1: it doesn't matter. africans. 2: if they're not muslim, then no.
it's possible he was joking. it's possible he lost his entire family in 9/11 or the subsequent war. it's possible he's racist. i don't know. it just made me afraid.
i've been trying to write something about dying, maybe because i've seen a lot of it lately. i think the thing that's the hardest to take is the lack of dignity people face while they're dying at the hospital. tubes and bottles and bags and nurses and doctors looking at you all the time. there's no privacy for family to greive. bodies are treated as facinating objects to "treat". (oh, god ... the pharmasists are talking about femisist women now. what the hell have i gotten myself into??) last night i felt completly overwhelmed by the fear of ending up in that position. even people who recover from an accident or illness are put through these really horrible procedures and completly lose control of everything, from breathing to bladder functions to movement. i guess the reality of it just hit me all at once. i'm not sure how doctors and nurses are ok with getting old, knowing the physical reality they may face. i chose quality over quantity.
The New PostSecret Book
12 years ago