They Get You in the End
They get you in the end. You can sidestep authority and avoid jail and prison all your life, but in the end they get you. You approach death and they get you. The medical profession and the laws that dovetail into the medical profession get you. Suddenly, when you’re in the worst misery and pain you’ve ever known and completely helpless, your life becomes of great interest to them, sacred. They want to keep you in a sterile room with a tube down your throat and another stuck up your dick and a solution in a jar hanging next to your bed dripping into you intravenously. They wake you up every two hours to take your pulse and check your blood pressure. They’ve dressed you in a flimsy green piece of material they call a nightgown, open all the way down the back so that your ass sticks out, tied together halfway up with two thin strips of cloth. Twice a day a doctor comes in to study the chart at the foot of your bed; he makes a notation or two and then leaves again. They’ve got you hooked up to gadgets that beep and flash red and monitor your dying. They won’t let you go home.
Those you love come to stand at the foot of the bed. They cry, wring their hands, ask the doctor how you’re doing.
Even after you die they won’t let you go home. They wheel you straight to the morgue and change the sheet on your bed for the next patient.