I ripped open the mustard-colored, legal-size envelope. I could tell by the handwriting, it was from my father. The only other time he had sent me a letter was when I was a child at sleep-away camp. A note, paper-clipped to a handful of legal documents, read, “put these in a safe place.” There were: Health Care Directives, Living Wills, Durable Powers of Attorney, and Trust Agreements—reminders of my parents’ mortality. One by one, I skimmed the legalese. When I saw my name, I paused. My parents had appointed me their Power of Attorney, to make their life and death decisions. It made sense, I am the eldest child and an attorney. Even so, I felt anointed. Now, a decade later, the power is paralyzing.
Read the rest of this article by Laura Black in Baltimore Magazine here.