Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  Delightful as this artificial truce feels I am adrift in a sea of speculation.

  ‘This,’ I say, spreading my hands to encompass the entire table, ‘is fantastic and I’m hugely impressed. You must have slogged for days without my even noticing. But… what is it all in aid of?’

  ‘The end of your thirties, of course,’ Naomi says. ‘Who better to celebrate all the antics and alarms you’ve survived, man and boy – than the one person who remembers them – all forty years of them!’

  ‘Good grief! I sincerely hope you don’t!’ I shoot out.

  This woman who is the doppelgänger of my mother, smiles quietly. ‘Just the good things.’ I can almost believe her – as much anyway as I believe anything that’s taking place tonight in this setting that so closely resembles my own dining room.

  My favourite brand of port and the bitter chocolate truffles we reserve for celebrations complete the meal, and we listen in silence to the hall clock strike midnight. I glance at Naomi. She is sending palpable silent messages across the table to her mother-in-law. There is a pregnant pause before my mother takes up her glass in a hand that I notice is trembling.

  ‘Happy birthday, Adam.’ Precisely forty years ago to the minute from the moment when I slithered out of her security into helpless existence. Her mouth opens to say more but she is too overcome to voice the thoughts.

  This is the first genuine hug I have given her in years.

  Tears filled Naomi’s eyes. That night she’d slipped out of the room at that point, her own grief and loss too great to contain. Adam had construed her absence as sensitivity, she hadn’t disabused him. Whatever the motive, it had been right to leave; the moment belonged to mother and son.

  Her role was to reconcile, not divide.

  For those few hours, on the brink of his last year, Adam had reached across a yawning divide and pulled his mother back to safety.

  It was right that neither had any idea of the dark secret she harboured.

  29 OCTOBER—I didn’t expect any concessions. Nobody at work even knows it’s my fortieth. But does Harry have to be quite so totally bloody objectionable today? Not only has he spent valuable time ranting and raving after insisting I came in this morning to rectify all the wrongs in my ‘slovenly prose’ and my ‘slacker’s timetable’ and my ‘self-indulgent ramblings’, but he seems to be standing guard in case I slip the noose and somehow evade his domination, single-handedly robbing me of all my creative edge. Cretin!

  I’m writing this at the office – a first – because I’m childish enough to resent being bullied on my birthday. I’ll email it home and then erase it. Can’t be too careful. Puny, eh? Anabelle’s more grown up about things.

  I guess I’m super-sensitive today. Not only is this the big four oh, entry to a significant phase in a person’s life, but for me it’s a very different milestone from the one the cards herald. Not that anyone’s been moronic enough to send me a card about primes or peaks or triumphs or sliding down the banister of life. The only two cards I’ve had are the sentimental tributes that wives and mothers are entitled to buy. I guess most people who know me are scared to recognise this particular birthday lest they say the wrong thing and tip me over the edge into my father’s depression. Strange. Nothing from Joel.

  Forty years. A lot more living than many of my forbears had. Plus, I’ve followed a career I’ve loved; I live with a woman I adore; I’m still able to get about, after a fashion, independently; my brain is still functioning; I can still scribble well enough to be published regularly; I’m writing a novel which I hope will reach the bookshops. I think, so far, I’ve kept the ‘I’ in MIND. Along the way I’ve met some fabulous characters – Lydia, Curtis, Devlin – who, without the MND, would not otherwise have enriched my life. And I’m not finished yet.

  The fact that the future is not the one I planned is maybe more a reflection on the unwarranted and naïve assumptions I made, than it is a betrayal by a superior being. Why not me? I’ve had decades longer than many human beings.

  Here comes my bête noire. Back to the grindstone.

  30 OCTOBER—A pity that yesterday’s entry wasn’t revised, but from the moment I got home last night until I fell into bed this morning, the diary was the last thing on my mind. No need for introspection or rumination, I was too busy living life in the fast lane.

  I was the last person out of the office. Even Harry scarpered once he’d demanded I do one last revision to the piece on proportionate representation. ‘On my desk first thing’, which meant do it tonight in my case. I can’t rely on crack-of-dawn starts these days. Naomi didn’t seem fazed when I rang her and she assured me she’d let the restaurant know if we were going to be seriously delayed. I promised her an extra helping of dessert to compensate.

  By the time I staggered up the path, home was the only place I wanted to be, but I managed to drag my sociable face out of the closet. She’d insisted. We had to mark my fortieth, quietly maybe, but it couldn’t go by entirely unnoticed. It might not be a normal milestone birthday but… it’s there between us: it’s probably my last.

  Naomi’s good at the right touches. A collection of candles burned on the hall table, sending a mellow camouflage over my weariness. She appeared from the kitchen looking fabulous in a shade of lavender blue that turned her grey eyes mauve. Lashings more temptation to stay at home, but she bundled me upstairs and even helped in the process of transforming a crumpled writer into a respectable escort. I was too exhausted to protest so she had me ready in record time.

  At the foot of the stairs she turned.

  ‘I need to get something from the bedroom. You go in and have a drink. I’m driving. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

  I know that in films, you’re never really convinced by the surprise on the face of the birthday person, but I genuinely had no suspicion Naomi was planning anything like this. I swear there wasn’t a sound from the rooms where they were gathered. Everybody seemed to be there – work colleagues, local friends, family, everyone who meant anything to me – except my mother. (Naomi explained later that’s why the dinner last night. Mum had been adamant: she couldn’t face having to keep cheerful in public. She’d willingly help with the cleaning, and the food, and the clearing up tomorrow, just don’t ask her to do the celebration bit.) When my eyes got around to Harry, even he was grinning, smugly pleased with his ruses to keep me out of the way until they were all at the house.

  Hugo Curtis put in a late and short appearance, bringing his wife to disguise his trade. Lydia had been on Naomi’s list but had a prior appointment; sent her apologies along with instructions to forget all her strictures on this occasion and push the boat out. Bless her. She’s done more to preserve my youth than most other people who’ve gathered to drain my cellar and toast my health.

  In the crush of humanity I could have lurched without notice, but Naomi soon had me enthroned beside the fire, an excellent Chardonnay I didn’t know we owned in one hand, the other free to be wrung by the steady stream of well-wishers. Joel understudied as host with impressive grace and managed to ensure I was supplied with nourishment that could be eaten without disaster. I suspected Naomi of instructing him in advance but in the circumstances, I held no grudge. My inhibitions slid down with the wine and I stopped worrying about my public image.

  There were no toasts and no speeches thanks to Naomi’s sensitivity, but the fact that I was still upright and smiling at 1 o’clock this morning was testament to the success of her planning. My speech degenerated after 11 but I’m not up to speed in metabolising alcohol these days so I had a legitimate excuse for incoherence.

  Harry took the prize for the biggest surprise. As he pumped my hand with a benevolence borne of too much whisky he slurred, ‘For all our sakes, take tomorrow off!’ There were no witnesses and I might live to regret it but I took the instruction at face value.

  When the door finally closed on the rest of the world, Naomi and I were both high and buzzing. The house looked like the proverbial bom
bsite but for once she took no persuading to leave the clearing up till the morning and I was at last free to tell her just how much I value all she is and does – a thing I do too rarely. Actions spoke more eloquently than my contorted consonants. I’ve been in a pleasant glow all day.

  31 OCTOBER—It was weird going into the office today. Harry was away but there were no memos, no demands left for me, not even a left-over odour of bullying. Paradoxically I found the atmosphere so bewildering I couldn’t concentrate on today’s subject; the rising rate of teenage pregnancies and a decline in the number of marriages. I eventually made my excuses and brought the work home.

  The world seems to have closed down since my birthday. Three of the key names I needed to consult were out of their offices, two useful contacts promised to ‘ring back later’. I’ve used the tactic myself so I recognise insincerity when I hear it. Instead I found myself through to a militant pro-lifer of terrifying passions who harangued me for a good twenty minutes.

  By 3.30 I gave up the unequal struggle and turned to the mountain of letters of thanks I now have to write. The number of gifts (donations to my favourite charity – thanks to Naomi) is such that this diary might have a few blank days.

  2 NOVEMBER—Since the confirmation of my birthday I’ve been wandering around in a euphoric state of denial. Today that bubble burst – nay, exploded! I am once again a disabled man facing a death sentence.

  When I agreed to help Devlin’s students I had this idealised picture of myself as the hero of the hour. The ferocious emeritus professors would be awed by my courage and altruism. The floundering students would be eternally grateful for my subtle clues and profound understanding of my disease. They would carry a sense of undying gratitude towards MND patients into their practice and the brightest would translate it into Nobel-prize-winning research. This ghastly disease would be no more.

  Okay, I thought I’d be the one in the driving seat. And I supposed they’d be somewhat impressed by my fight. Reality felt quite otherwise.

  Dr Nimbus was neither emeritus nor professor. He wasn’t crusty or crushing or at all impressed by me. Matter-of-fact, sums him up. His thanks were standard-issue not grovelling, his questions were most decidedly directed at the students and when I attempted to add my mite, he instantly cut me off, explaining as if to a child, that it was the students who needed to learn, not me.

  The twenty raw recruits laying apologetically cold and trembling hands on my anatomy turned out to be three confident, brisk professionals.

  A tutorial, Dr Nimbus said; not the career-blighting major examination of clinical competence I remember from black and white films. Tutorial or not, these wannabe MBs had done their homework. They knew the anatomy of my disease, the physiology, the manifestations, the treatments, the prognosis, the latest treatments, without hesitation, deviation or repetition. The pauses weren’t long enough for any patient of above-average speed to tip them the wink, never mind my sluggish self.

  Their complete command of the situation reduced me to a status lower than any since I’d been crushed by Malcolm Inches’ BMW. In minutes I became ‘the patient’. Not ‘THE’ but ‘the’. Any patient. Indistinguishable, unremarked, unremembered. I had nothing to do but assimilate their powerful knowledge. They were under no obligation to soften the horror. Not for them the euphemisms of Devilish Devlin. Their sole intent was to impress Dr Nimbus. The more they knew, the harder he pressed for detail.

  After five gruelling years of packing their brains with facts, these students were too close to real salaries to hide their lights under bushels for the sake of the sensibilities of a nobody. I listened to them rattle off all the deficiencies to which I had already succumbed, all the losses which lay ahead, and all the impotence of their profession. They left with rehearsed thanks and an air of assurance, completely oblivious to the wreckage in their wake.

  It was sobering to read his honest account of that day. How different from the amusement of his Carry on Doctor description when he returned from this encounter.

  5 NOVEMBER—I’ve always hated fireworks. In adulthood, I’ve added objection to my hatred. What possible merit can there be in blowing up thousands of pounds when it might be employed to improve our social services or reduce the waiting lists or give abandoned children a future? What a middle-aged, curmudgeonly kill-joy! Forty going on ninety. But the fact remains…

  I’m writing something along those lines for my column. Today’s accidents will fuel my passion: three school-kids blinded in Nottingham, five teenagers trapped in a garage full of the lethal devices in Canterbury, killed by a careless match; countless minor injuries filling casualty departments the length and breadth of the country.

  As I write in the safety of my study at home, Noelani is cringing under the chair, staring wildly at the flashing sky. The spit and surge of rockets peppering the silence are curiously in tune with the anger of my thoughts.

  The feature finished I turn to the MND Association’s Personal Guide. My bruising encounter with tomorrow’s doctors sent me back to check the information. And yes, they’d summed it up accurately. Reduced to its unvarnished core it’s every bit as bad as they painted it. But it was the miniscule space devoted to ‘relationships’ that made me phone the Association. Didn’t they know that relationships are one of the most important… Who knows what I said? The woman who answered put on that soothing voice that people reserve for the unhinged, the downright dangerous and the pathetic. She fell over herself offering things, couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that I was giving something, not wanting something. I bellowed my name, occupation and contact details to be sure she got the message loud and clear that I was somebody. I’m probably on some blacklist somewhere by now!

  Naomi leaned slowly back away from Adam’s computer with a deep sigh. It was all such a battle.

  6 NOVEMBER—Harry has reverted to type already. I dared to challenge a comment made by one of our reporters in yesterday’s lead article: something patronising about sickness rates amongst the blue-collar brigade. The said reporter flared up and said some damning things about society being soft on malingerers and the work-shy. Once I’d caught my breath I launched into a counter-attack.

  Harry, no doubt infuriated by the take-over bid at his precious team meeting, banged his paperweight on the desk and yelled at everyone to shut up in his most colourful language. In the ensuing hung silence he had the audacity to say, and I quote: ‘Okay. Okay. Okay! We all know Adam just needs time to re-establish his identity as a disabled man, so let’s leave it at that and move on with this bloody agenda.’

  Why I didn’t walk out, I do not know. Part of me just couldn’t credit he said that. Part of me didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of confirming his diagnosis with my current ungainly stagger. Besides which, all the teaching of my youth still inclines me to respect authority – even moronic authority like Harry’s.

  Afterwards, in the privacy of the coffee area, Jannine did her Christian best to sympathise. She even lowered her guard sufficiently to call Harry an ‘insensitive toad’. Phhhssssh! Ten Hail Mary’s worth at least. I don’t want her pity.

  Jerry, more robust, got it equally wrong. ‘Try not to be so subjective. It’s just Harry.’ Idiot. Experience is subjective. What else can I be? I am living it. It’s what gives me the right to a voice on the matter. I could say – if it was worth it, which it isn’t – ‘You’re too objective! Just walk a mile in my moccasins, matey, and then see what you say!

  I’ve had it with the lot of them. Maybe I should just quit the paper now, stay at home and get my novel finished.

  13 NOVEMBER—I’m back on the inequalities bandwagon. Thanks to Mrs AA of Slimbridge who wrote a moving letter to The Times.

  On this occasion my piece is about free prescriptions. I’m staggered to find that some conditions – like the endocrine things (diabetes and thyroid problems) – qualify their owners for concessions, whilst others like chronic arthritis and degenerative diseases don’t. I’m beavering away to fin
d the official explanation and the hidden agendas. Will I rattle the cages of some sleeping tigers with this, I wonder?

  I’m incensed on behalf of Mrs AA.

  She’s apparently a martyr to arthritis and takes a chemist-shop-full of pills every day, but she’s on the breadline, whereas her posh neighbour gets everything free because she falls into this other medical category. Mrs AA’s delicate enough not to divulge confidential detail. I know (where she may not) that Mrs Posh has probably been piling gold into the tax coffers and subsidising the likes of Mrs AA for years; even so, I’m sympathetic to her sense of outrage and maybe a little public exposure of the issues wouldn’t come amiss. As they say, you not only have to be above reproach, you need to be seen to be. We shall see.

  Most of my time I’m steaming along with Aidan’s story and life feels good in my cosy cocoon, well above Mrs AA’s breadline. Should I let the redoubtable lady know that I have an incurable and progressive illness myself? She’d warm to me more. I’d be allying myself with all sufferers everywhere. No. I’d be at a strong disadvantage with my other readers and critics. I have to stay on that level playing field for the time being.

  Maybe this calls for a letter to The Times referring to hers. From Mr AO of Edinburgh. Then I could pile on the agony.

  Depends what I unearth.

  15 NOVEMBER—My hypocrisy has been uncovered. There I was on Tuesday, aligning myself with the disabled, sharing their outrage, flying their flag. Here I am two days later, turning my back on those with whom I should identify most closely: my companions on the walk – no, stagger – through MND itself.

  The letter came from a Lieutenant Colonel GRS Grant-Hartwood. Very parliamentarian in his style of address. He’s probably got yards of influence and connections in high places. But he’s not so mighty that he won’t stoop to grovelling. All this rubbish about me being a local celebrity, blah blah blah. Huhh! Fair enough, he might conceivably know my name from the paper, but who the devil told him about my MND? He doesn’t specify, just says he’s ‘heard’ I have this ‘unfortunate condition’.