My Ma died three times

When she was eighty seven my Ma was mowing her bumpy, steep lawn with an old, blunt hand mower. She fell, but managed to drag herself to the house to phone for help. That same evening she was on the operating table of a big hospital in Bristol. The surgeon opened her up to pin her broken thigh but there was nothing much to pin it to, so he decided to give her a new hip.

For an woman of eighty seven who had been in shock for some time it was a bit much, so she died. The theater team flung its self on her and managed to bring her back to life. They got on with the operation but she died again and the team got her going again. Heroic stuff.

The ward sister told me about the magnificent job that the theater staff and the surgeon had done for my Ma and, when I was looking after her and she was back home I asked her. "What was it like, my Ma, to die? do tell me." " Well" she said, "it was very agreeable. I was traveling into an area that was very familiar but, strangely, I can't describe it. I knew that if I could get away from words I could get deeper into it, but words reached out for me and pulled me back.
The same thing happened a second time. I was cross about it and when I was recovering in hospital I asked to see my surgeon."

My Ma had a certain authority and after a while the surgeon arrived smiling at her bedside, ready to be congratulated. My Ma said "Sit down young man". He sat. "Now, please tell me by what authority you had me brought back to life." Fortunately, like her daughter, my Ma liked charming young men and they were soon on the best of terms. She lived for another ten years and I think she found it hard, but she became much kinder and more gentle. I said to her once "My Ma , you should have died much earlier, you are so much nicer now" But seriously, isn't it a strange story? I've asked to be allowed to die without heroic interventions. What would you do?