Imagine waking up in what can only be described as a sleep paralysis, nightmare hellscape, as your organs are very definitely being harvested from your very much alive body.
That’s exactly what happened to Anthony Hoover of Richmond, Kentucky after being declared braindead while in a coma in 2021. He was purported to have been “thrashing around” when the incident occurred. Yikes.
You would think there would be more stringent standards to check for these kinds of things before proceeding. Prior to that, Hoover’s eyes were reportedly open and tracking his loved one’s movements around the room. WHAT? Hello, may I please see your degree and several lawyers while we’re at it?
The first thing this made me think of was my little Ripley’s Believe It or Not! 29th Series book that contains all manner of odd factoids throughout history.
Page 27: “Sally Mutton, of Bristol, R.I., was pronounced dead in 1900, but her husband refused to accept the doctor’s statement- and held off the undertaker with a shotgun. He poured hot milk between his wife’s lips and she regained consciousness and outlived her husband by 40 years!” Yes, I took the book off my shelf and specifically checked for this story, but more importantly, where was Anthony Hoover’s glass of hot milk?
Secondly, it brings to mind the Victorian Era, when people were so terrified of being buried alive there was a crazed fad of building “Safety coffins” that had elaborate systems of bells and whistles to alert any passersby in case the occupant hadn’t actually met his maker. What a time to (not) be alive. Not to mention all the other deadly accoutrement of mourning jewelry, death photography, hair wreaths, tear bottles, etc. A super fun bunch.
I personally go back and forth on the idea of organ donation. On one hand, what do I care? I’ll be dead and my little zombie organs could potentially go on to help multiple people. The ultimate sacrifice in some ways. On the other hand, I kinda feel like I earned all this wear and tear and layers and imprints. Memories. I know memories are of the mind and that part will be gone, functionally, at least, and well, all the other organs have been along for the ride and carried the burdens of said memories. The joys, the pains, I want it all intact. For it to die with me in one final decaying gift box. My body.
I almost picture it looping like a cute, haunting, old timey death reel of events. The kind you see play in a movie when a wife has died. I want the movie of my life to stay in there. Of the time when I was a carefree little kid, before the world tarnished me. Before I had bills and didn’t know that most dreams don’t come true. Of when I raised a goblet in a toast on stage in an arena full of people paying admission to see me perform. When I traveled. When my heart was broken a million times in various capacities, but my optimism held on every time. When I was funny, when I helped people, when I bested a bully, when I didn’t care about what didn’t matter anymore. When I found a love I never expected and didn’t think existed. That first kiss, that engagement ring, that eternity. All this and more.
My one request though, whatever happens, please make sure I’m dead first.
