Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  Naomi woke with her heart pounding. She dared not close her eyes again but lay unmoving, dreading the morrow.

  25 JULY—Naomi was away all day and I’m delighted to report I didn’t spill anything, trip over anything or otherwise disgrace myself. One of her colleagues ran her back in the evening, but whoever it was didn’t come in.

  Naomi seemed pretty washed out so I made her a hot chocolate and packed her off to bed. She didn’t protest.

  Unusual.

  This girl works too hard, gives too much of herself to other people. She needs more TLC.

  Naomi cowered away from the screen, her eyes wide and staring, her reflection lurking like a pale ghost in the background.

  A furtive glance was enough to show that there was no entry at all for the following day. It was as if those dreadful hours had been erased.

  She closed down the computer and dragged herself into the kitchen in search of comfort. A full glass of Madeira went down without pause for breath. A second was equally tasteless.

  Perhaps she should skip the rest of the entries for July. Why not? She wanted to leave the 25th out of her own calendar for ever.

  The familiar pervasive sense of sorrow tightened its grip on her chest.

  ‘Oh, Adam, Adam, Adam. Why did it have to be this way?’

  29 JULY—Usually Sunday’s a good day in our house. It’s the one day of the week we can lie in or have a leisurely breakfast or spend quality time together before the pressures of workaday deadlines push us back into the stampede.

  But today was the exception. Naomi was up and about with the lark for some reason. She mumbled something about feeling restless, not wanting to disturb my sleep. But her head was inside the cupboard under the stairs at the time so I didn’t get the full story.

  It occurs to me my mother may have been giving her a conscience. Why else would she suddenly need to clear out cupboards on a Sunday morning, for goodness’ sake? Unless…?

  Is it…? Could she be…?

  When she’d finished she suddenly announced that she was off for a tramp in the woods. I looked hard at her but, I don’t think it was my imagination, she didn’t hold my gaze.

  ‘I just need to clear my head,’ was all she said.

  ‘Of cobwebs?’

  The smile only twisted her mouth, didn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘Or secrets?’ I said lightly, watching her.

  She bent down to lace up her walking shoes.

  ‘D’you want to come with me? It’s okay if you’ve got things you want to do.’ A trifle too quick with the dis-invitation, I thought. But I know what it feels like to need your own space.

  ‘No, off you go. Enjoy your hike. You’ll cover twice the ground without me stumbling along behind you. But don’t forget I’m here if you want to off-load.’

  She gave me a quick kiss and was off. I watched her solitary figure until it was lost in the trees and a mist of tears. A symbolic moment. Her future. Without me.

  While she was gone I tackled the Sunday papers. There are some depressingly good writers amongst the competition. But Kingsley wasn’t a name I’d seen before. The Most Reverend Wilberforce JJ Kingsley. Sounds a bit reinforced. But anyway, he’s produced this intriguing little thought-for-the-day on a subject I have a sort of love-hate relationship with.

  Sanctity of life. My mother’s bosom pal. Some automatic shutter closes as soon as her needle hits that particular groove. But the Most Reverend Wilberforce JJ Kingsley adds a new dimension to her entrenched position.

  The sanctity and the value standpoints are radically different, he maintains. Sanctity or sacredness means the person is set apart, consecrated: ergo, life itself is not yours to meddle with. Be it long or short it’s just down to you to be a faithful steward of the time you’re given.

  Value, by contrast, refers to inherent worth. What is this life worth? Things like the relief of suffering or wanting eternal life with God may have more value at a certain point than the present life. Furthermore, if you believe that the life to come is infinitely more wonderful than this present mortal lot then it’s crazy to revere it above the future one and cling to it indecently. Well, yes, I paraphrase!

  But the corollary to this, it seems to me, is that if you don’t believe in an afterlife you might want to hang on to this present life, just because it is all there is; precious in its finiteness. That’s what I’m afraid of: hanging on too long.

  30 JULY—I sent a basket of flowers to the surgery for Lydia with a little message. Her first day back. Facing all those people who know she’s been away for weeks. But I don’t want to be another person picking away at her scabs. Best to get the soppy things said.

  I’d have sent them to her home but I’ve no idea where she lives.

  I hope it’s not a liberty too far.

  Naomi still seems… subdued?… pensive?… withdrawn? I’m not exactly sure. I tried to get her to talk this evening, but she kept it superficial and soon hid behind the chatter of the news on the radio while she did the ironing. If she is pregnant, she’s not exactly blooming yet!

  31 JULY—I made a complete twerp of myself today and I can only hope the precise detail doesn’t come back to Naomi.

  Some woman phoned at lunchtime wanting to speak to ‘Mrs O’Neill’.

  ‘May I ask who’s calling?’ I said, being of a mean and suspicious disposition.

  ‘Ummmm… Stella.’

  ‘Stella from the Social Work Department, Stella from the Women’s Institute, Stella from the KGB, or Stella from the underworld?’ I let my voice sink to a conspiratorial whisper on the last word.

  Suspended silence.

  ‘I take it Mrs O’Neill isn’t there?’ Whoever she was she was not amused.

  ‘If you’re planning a robbery or wanting to use this house for meetings of the Ku Klux Klan, not only is she here but she’s armed to the teeth, and so are her seventeen burly security men and yours truly, who, incidentally, has a black belt in Karate to boot. If you need to speak to her bodyguard, press button 1. If you’re needing a can-rattler for your pet charity or you’re after her cells for cloning a super-race press button 2.’ I don’t suppose it actually sounded remotely like a recorded message either.

  Silence again.

  ‘Hello?’ I ventured after a decent interval.

  ‘Is that Mr O’Neill?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘St…’ She obviously saw the pitfall instantly.

  In a blinding flash it occurred to me this might be some distraught woman whose kiddie was up for adoption or some childless soul who needed a sympathetic ear.

  ‘Look, I’m desperately sorry. Ignore my nonsense. I’ve been in an accident and the enforced house arrest is driving me loony. I’m afraid my wife isn’t here at the moment but may I take a message?’

  ‘Could you… would you ask her to ring Stella, please?’

  ‘Sure thing. May I take your number?’

  ‘She’ll have it.’

  ‘Okay. Will do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem. And again, I’m terribly sorry.’

  There was the tiniest pause before the ringing tone cut us off.

  Naomi closed her eyes and took long steadying breaths. Stella had dismissed her second-hand apology lightly. But she must have wondered just what was going on in Naomi’s domestic life. It didn’t bear imagining what was recorded in her notes. When she’d got in from work that night, Adam had been sheepish in confession.

  ‘Who’s Stella?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘Why?’ She busied herself unpacking the shopping.

  ‘Because she rang to speak to you today.’

  ‘Oh, did she leave a message?’

  ‘Just said, would you ring her.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is she one of your clients?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because… well, I’m afraid I
… well, I went into crazy-speak.’

  She turned then to look at him, waiting.

  ‘I chuntered on as if she might be some criminal casing the joint.’

  ‘Without even knowing who she was?’ Naomi stared at him incredulously.

  ‘I know. Lunatic. I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘Not just lunatic, dangerous,’ she shot back.

  ‘I know, I know. I don’t know what came over me. I’m desperately sorry. Should I phone or write to apologise or something? Who is she anyway?’

  ‘No, you’d only make it into a bigger deal than it is already. I’ll explain. Tell her you’re just out of the asylum. But for goodness’ sake, Adam.’

  He was abject in his repeated apologies but asked no more questions.

  Another narrow escape.

  Sagging back into his chair now, Naomi consciously worked at letting the tension out of her shoulders.

  1 AUGUST—Julie from three doors down called in today with a punnet of raspberries from her prolific garden. She and Naomi often exchange gardening tips and produce. But she had to make do with me tonight because Naomi was held up at work.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Julie asked.

  ‘Yes, fine. She’s just horrendously busy. Working all hours these days.’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered. Because of her being at the hospital. I was up there on Wednesday visiting my aunt – fractured hip, you know. And I saw Naomi walking along the corridor. I called across. But she didn’t hear me.’

  ‘Wednesday? Oh, it’ll just have been work. She had appointments all day. She goes to the hospital to see the new mothers whose babies are going for adoption.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yeah, it was the corridor that goes across to the maternity section.’

  I didn’t really hear the rest of her warbling. First the nesting… now going to the baby world… asleep when I go to bed, up before me in the morning…

  I’m suddenly aware of holding my breath.

  Naomi became aware that she was holding her own breath. She leaned forward onto her elbows the better to massage her aching neck, but that only brought Adam’s suspense closer.

  2 AUGUST—I’m still feeling slightly bewildered. Last night Naomi rang to say she’d be late home – had to go somewhere; salmon steaks, salad, in the fridge; not to wait for her. I was instantly thinking chemist, Mothercare…

  The plain brown box she carried in from the car was unremarkable but she carried it in as if it was a Ming vase and laid it carefully on my lap.

  ‘Consolation prize.’

  I guess I was still trying to think laterally when I opened the flaps. So two wide round copper eyes staring up at me from the ball of silvery-blue fluff in one corner took me by storm.

  ‘She’s not Cassandra, I know, but she’s the best I can do,’ Naomi said with a kind of thickness in her voice.

  I couldn’t say anything for a good century. Even then I hid behind telling the creature how beautiful she was until I got a grip.

  ‘I thought she ought to be completely different from Cassandra,’ Naomi was whispering, peering over my shoulder into the box. ‘She’s a Blue Persian.’

  ‘What a fabulous coat,’ I said.

  A fabulous hissing greeted my tentative hand.

  ‘You’ll probably be cursing those long hairs on everything before the week is out!’ Her more robust tones instantly raised the mood back into my comfort zone.

  ‘And what’s the name of this little princess?’

  ‘It’s your choice. She’s your cat.’

  ‘Oh wow! Well, it’ll have to be something exotic.’

  I’m already up to the Ks in the book of baby names; nothing worthy of her noble ancestry and impeccable credentials so far.

  3 AUGUST—The Persian Cat website confirms my sense of awe in the presence of my new playmate – well, she’ll thaw eventually, I hope. She is the direct descendant of one of the oldest recognised pedigree breeds. No wonder she tolerates only minimal contact with my plebeian little world to date.

  Our particular aristocrat is to be either Noelani (Hawaiian for beautiful one from heaven; but with an expectation of a good old British Christmas when we get better acquainted) or Rashieka (Arabic, meaning descended from royalty). She certainly hasn’t allowed the common courtesies to inhibit her from instantly betraying her superiority so far. The way she minces around my study would make even my mother feel her standards were deficient.

  Help! Therein lies danger!

  Trying out the alternatives, I’m almost sure it’ll be Noelani. If I ever get to the stage of daring to raise my voice to/for her, I fear Rashieka would be too strident a sound for everyone’s sensibilities.

  Suddenly, unbidden, there flashes into my mind an unworthy thought. Naomi has replaced Cassandra and I’m delighted with the new improved version. My hurt is instantly… not exactly erased, but immeasurably eased. Will Naomi replace me so easily? And with a much better model?

  I feel a sudden longing for Cassandra’s acceptance, for the soothing comfort of warm vibrating fur, the unquestioning devotion.

  I’m staggered by the depth of my disappointment. It’s like a dull nauseating malaise. And I have absolutely no right to it.

  I got it all wrong. Naomi was pining not preparing. She’s not pregnant. Tangible evidence.

  I need time to analyse my feelings on this one. Noelani could be very helpful here but she hasn’t learned to smell my moods yet.

  Thank goodness I said nothing about my suspicions to Naomi.

  4 AUGUST—My thinking over the last few days has made me start on my will. I need to work at it myself first; no point in paying a solicitor to translate half-baked ideas into legal-speak.

  The financial bit is easy. Done and dusted. But the advance directive isn’t nearly as straightforward as I thought it was before I stepped onto the slippery slope to oblivion. I’ve retrieved a template from the Internet but it needs tweaking to fit my bizarre circumstances.

  If I’m to bequeath my tissues to medical science, speed is of the essence and everybody needs to know beforehand. Curtis found out for me; tissue is of most value during the first forty-eight hours. He also told me that the family might have to pay to move my body to a tissue bank – several hundred pounds apparently!

  We can afford it but imagine what it’d do for some poor folk, altruistic and generous but financially strapped; going cap in hand to charities in the first hours of bereavement. Madness! *(For Ideas folder: the cost of altruism.) I’ve worked out an argument for anyone who tries to overrule my request, though – my sainted mother springs to mind! Respect for the living requires that my lesser-ranking dead tissue be used on their behalf.

  Aha!

  By way of light relief, I’ve started a ‘My funeral’ file. Galloped into that without a qualm. Pity I’ll miss it (well, not hear and see it) with its combination of the things I’d enjoy. I’ve already told Naomi about it.

  The echo of his laughter as he outlined crazy plans for his send-off made Naomi smile. Extravagant talk of helicopters trailing banners, party poppers and irreverent songs had taken the sting out of the subject without betraying his actual wishes. He’d even composed eight lines of doggerel about himself which he said she could read over the coffin to send him on his way with a chortle.

  The actual event had been so much easier to organise because of his explicit instructions. And it was surprisingly comforting knowing it was exactly what he wanted. Dignified but not melancholy; solemn without being maudlin.

  She closed her eyes against the vivid pictures: the endless walk to the front of the church – alone; the coffin; the moment when it sank out of sight…

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ she whispered, her eyes swivelling to the photograph. ‘I don’t want to be here without you.’

  6 AUGUST—Lydia is back. I was hopeless. She thanked me for the flowers; I commiserated. We got on with the exercises but you can’t flirt with a new widow; you can’t tease her into life. I just did as she said and neither of us a
ttempted to fill in the spaces. I couldn’t. Every topic of conversation seemed insensitive: holidays, writing novels, slurred speech. How trivial is that?

  She was professional and efficient but just not the Lydia I know and love. All the colour and sparkle had gone. I came away depressed by my own inadequacy and her pain.

  Is this what it’ll be like for Naomi?

  I only stayed a couple of hours at the office then went home to work. As if I were in mourning too.

  I’m writing a piece on disabled access. It’s enough to make me reach for the barbiturates. Everything from aeroplane loos right down to pavement kerbs conspires against you if you’re physically disabled. And this is in an age of equality and anti-discrimination. Ha ha!

  I mean, since 1995 and the jolly little enlightened Disability Discrimination Act, service providers have a duty to change the physical features of premises that make it ‘unreasonably difficult’ for people with disabilities to use those services, or else they have to provide an alternative way of making the service available. Unreasonably difficult? Ho ho ho! A movable feast methinks, depending on where you sit at the banquet. By golly, I even found an airline that charged disabled people for the use of a wheelchair to transfer them in the airport. Hello?

  The Disability Rights Commission is monitoring the situation, I’m told; test cases will be brought to achieve maximum effect. By the time some of these cases get a hearing my guess is the victim will be long gone.And such is my destiny.

  Maybe this will be my last foreign holiday. Ever. The finality is beginning to feel real. The last… whatever.

  8 AUGUST—The mysterious Stella whoever-she-is has re-surfaced. Well, somebody purporting to be her spokesperson rang anyway. A squeaky-voiced Lottie from ‘Occupational Health’. I hope the actual Stella, doubtless cringing in the background, paid her fall-guy handsomely.

  Let it not be said that I am too arrogant to learn a lesson, however. I was silkily smooth, charmingly chivalrous, and politeness personified. Having established in one simple sentence that Mrs O’Neill was not currently to be located in her known residence, the innovative Lottie set out to ascertain whether or not I might be seeing the said Mrs O’Neill in the forseeable future. The temptation to trade on this open invitation to satirical riposte, I admit, was powerful but I resisted and gave a dull and predictable, yes.