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This is my will and living will. I will update whenever I damn well feel like it. I'm the only one with the password to the account with write access to this document. The rest of you can bugger off. The funny characters at the beginning and end . . . that's a PGP signature. Only I have the private key of the pair. Changing, adding, or deleting a single character will invalidate the signature. This document is available at http://nielsolson.us/LivingWill. You can authenticate using the public key, which is available here: http://nielsolson.us/contact.html.

I want Brooke, my wonderful wife, to execute this will. If she cannot, then I wish my brother Kyle to do so, and if not him, then my brother Jon, and if not him, then leave it to my children, Laurel and Ben, and between them, they must decide by way of rock-paper-sissors: best two out of three. No more than three. If none of the above named persons are available, then this will should be executed by a person of sound mind and broken body, someone who has read Plato's Republic, has a working knowledge of molecular biology, appreciates Lichtenstein, Pollock, Serra, and George Carlin. Some who can derive the time-independent form of Shroedinger's equation from the time-dependent form and who can write write a program to calculate the Fibinocci sequence in Lisp, shall have preference. Any executor must read the book The House of God, by Samuel Schem.

First, anyone who executes this will must read the Constitution of the United States and the Declaration of Independence no less than 24 hours prior. Listen to me: Jefferson was a lying politician. It was never life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All the enlightment thinkers said life, liberty, and property. 

Now . . . if, after the age of 70, I'm in the ICU for more than 24 hours, and a random and anonymous plurality of residents and attendings agree I'm a gomer, or my GCS is 7T and there's less than a 20% chance of clinically significant improvement, then let me die. If I've got a head full of blood or CSF or my brain has herniated, let me die. If I only draw half of an analog clock, let me die. I don't want to feel any pain, I don't want to be bleeding out of all my orifices, I don't want chest compressions if it's going to break every metastatic rib. I don't want to be laying in bed indefinitely with a sacral decubitus ulcer, unable to care for myself. I don't want a PEG and trach only to get shipped off to an LTAC.

If I have a central pontine hemorrhage and can't communicate AT ALL, and you're absolutely certain of it, after years, then let me die. Read up on Julia Tavalaro and Jean-Dominique Bauby first. If I have  central pontine hemorrhage and I can blink an eyelid, or wiggle a toe, then, please, work with me. Here's how we'll communicate: You read the letters of the alphabet in order of frequency and I'll blink/twitch/something when you get to the right letter:

e t a o i n s h r d l c u m w f g y p b v k j x q z

To let me die, please load me with 250 mg of propofol then run a propofol drip at 20 mg/min IV, add 200 mg cisatricurium, morphine starting at 10 mg/hour, more as clinially indicated, and just start running potassium in until my heart stops. 10 in the morning on a sunny day, if possible.

If I have any money, pay off all my kids's student loans, all the way through medical school and residency. If, after that, there's still money left over, spend it on saving the planet.

If I owe money, sell my organs to the highest bidder and pay off those debts.
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