Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  9 APRIL—Bearing in mind that planes crash I checked over my will and other papers. Seems to be in order.

  10 APRIL Naomi reproached me for not cancelling the newspapers and starting to pack. Hmmmm. Am I secretly ambivalent about going, Mr Freud?

  The sheer effort involved in gathering together the things I shall need in Madeira was colossal. I’m so slow. And clumsy.

  11 APRIL—I’m ready.

  There the file ended. Naomi stared at the blank screen, memories flooding into her mind. She’d been suspicious initially. Madeira had seemed such an improbable choice for a man with limited mobility.

  ‘Why Madeira?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘I went there when I was a student and I fell in love with it.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in revisiting places.’

  ‘I don’t usually. But Madeira’s different. I want to show it to you.’

  ‘But there are heaps of places nearer to home.’ More suitable.

  ‘Madeira’s unique. The scenery is breathtaking.’

  ‘And mountainous and dangerous.’

  ‘You don’t have to go into the really dangerous parts,’ he said. ‘You can get a real feel for it all from the roads and viewing points.’

  ‘Is that what you’re proposing – a coach holiday? For us? Adam O’Neill, you hypocrite! How many times have I heard you mock “silver sitters” stuck in a coach with a hi-de-hi guide?’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘How are the mighty fallen!’ she’d crowed. And there the matter had been dropped.

  But she’d been intrigued. Should she deny him such an attainable wish?

  It was breakfast time four days later when she opened the subject again.

  ‘D’you know you can do fly-and-drive to Madeira?’

  ‘Yeeeeees.’

  ‘How about it?’

  He’d put down his spoon in slow motion.

  ‘Are you offering?’

  ‘What’s the matter? Afraid to trust yourself to my driving – on those roads?’

  ‘Not in the least. I’d trust you. Besides what have I got to lose? But what about you? You’d be the one dealing with the sheer drops and no barriers! You up for that?’

  ‘Poooofff! If coaches of senior citizens can do it, I can do it in a scabby little runabout. No problem!’

  At that point, of course, he’d been able to lever himself in and out of vehicles, move about on sticks. There’d been no premonition of his rapid decline. In spite of all Adam had told her, everything she’d seen and read about it, Naomi had been awed by the vastness of the cliffs and the precipitate drops at the edge of the winding roads. She was tense at first, driving on the right-hand side, with the controls back to front, all too conscious of Adam’s intake of breath when she took sharp corners, or veered close to the edge to avoid oncoming traffic.

  But as she had gained in confidence, he had relaxed, frequently requesting her to stop so that they could revel in the views. There were innumerable terraces carved into the hillsides, luxuriant vines and bananas so close to the roadside she could have picked them. Flamboyant bougainvillias cascading over doorways and walls. Strelitzias, lilies, multicoloured geraniums growing rampant in the warmth of the African sun. Mimosa, oleanders, a good twelve times the size of any she’d ever seen elsewhere. Great swathes of agapanthus and hydrangeas, banked up in a sea of blue and white, dwarfing the cars running through them. Sudden oases of colour at the side of the road where someone had painstakingly reclaimed waste ground and then tended the fruits of their labours.

  He’d chosen their accommodation with care. A spacious, ground floor room, easily accessible to a wheelchair, marble-lined bathroom with wide corridors between the facilities, making it feasible for him to be as independent as possible.

  The days were full but by the evening Adam was exhausted. She was content to read or sew on the verandah while he slept, she said, but twice he managed to persuade her to go out alone.

  The first time she walked along the cliff road and sat on the retaining wall watching the breakers below, listening to the unique sound: a gigantic sea creature sucking gravel through its teeth. Mesmerising. In the evening light the white froth of the spent waves stood in sharp contrast to the blackness of the volcanic cliff. She must come back with a camera. Thoughts of past holidays where she’d been breathless keeping up with Adam’s energy sent her back to him.

  On the second occasion, she’d built up sufficient courage to drive around the coast to a little picnic spot they’d stopped at previously. She wanted to photograph the silhouette of rocky protuberances at right angles to the cliff edge, thrown into relief by the setting sun. The accumulated warmth of the day had brought a few lizards out to bask on the flagstones. She captured the evening sky through its many changes and it was with a start that she realised it was almost dark. She tossed her apple core and a tissue into the wastebin, only to recoil in horror. The inside of the bin was thrashing with lizards – black, grey, green, brown, large, small, dominant, crushed. Tails whipping, legs trampling, tongues forking. It was like some religious zealot’s portrait of hell. She shivered and withdrew quickly, a premonition of disaster gripping her.

  She returned to the hotel immediately. Adam was fast asleep. Outside, as she sat alone in the remnants of the day, the dread gradually receded.

  Locals gathered in the village every evening, clustering under trees, in the gloom of doorways, in the shadows cast by their houses, as if the places that sheltered them from the fierce heat of noontide embraced them more intimately at night too. Animated conversations laced the streets; to her uninitiated ears they always sounded irritated, even angry. Many of the women wore scarves, shawls, or even twisted cardigans, over their heads. What did it denote? She couldn’t tell and it seems too invasive to photograph them without permission. Such pictures cried out to her everywhere. She wanted to capture the old man limping barefoot up the steep road, his body bent double beneath some unnamed affliction; a teenager with obvious chromosomal anomalies trudging obediently behind her parents, staring vacantly at foreigners through her cracked glasses; a farm labourer staggering on the terraces, one atrophied leg clamped tightly in a supportive brace, as he struggled to balance a pile of canes on his back; a merry group of wheelchair-users jostling for position in a ragged queue, yelling their lunch-time orders for caldo verdi with crunchy half-risen bread. It was striking, this acceptance of disability and deformity here on Madeira. So different from the tourists’ reactions: the sudden silence when she’d wheeled Adam into the dining room in his chair, sideways glances, whispers. She’d reached across the table to twine her fingers into his, giving the onlookers blatant messages about their relationship. She wouldn’t let them think for a second that he was her brother or a friend she took pity on.

  ‘Glad you came here?’ he asked later, as they sat side by side on their verandah looking out at the ocean. The setting sun made her skin glow, deepening the tan she had acquired so easily during their stay on the island.

  She smiled happily.

  ‘Absolutely. I love it. I can see why you wanted to come back.’

  ‘Thanks, Naomi.’

  ‘What for? Agreeing to have a brilliant holiday?’ she teased.

  ‘For everything. Sticking by me. Caring enough.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I love you – remember? In sickness and in health, for better or for worse. I meant it. Besides, you’d do the same for me.’

  ‘I love you. Always remember that,’ he said softly.

  It was Thursday evening.

  ‘Where would you most like to go for your last full day here?’ he asked her suddenly.

  ‘Porto Moniz,’ she replied instantly. ‘No competition. And you?’

  ‘Just along from Quinta Grande. There’s a flat ledge that gives a fantastic view of the coastline and the cliffs. I remember it from last time.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s do half a day at each place.’

  ‘No. Would you mind? Just this once. I re
ally want to be on my own.’ There was a curious appeal in his voice. ‘You look after me brilliantly but… you know how I need my own space.’

  It had been a hard lesson to learn initially when she’d wanted to be with him every second of every day and every night. But it was ingrained, this deep need for solitude.

  ‘Much as I love you – it’d be like a real holiday – just to be on my own for a few hours. With a book.’

  She couldn’t deny him that.

  ‘You take the car up north to your favourite spot; I’ll call a taxi and go to mine.’

  ‘No, I can take you there before I go to Porto Moniz,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Please, Naomi. I want to do this by myself.’ The smile had gone out of his eyes and his voice. ‘I’ll take my mobile. I can call a taxi when I’ve had enough.’

  ‘But the taxi might not be able to take your chair and the driver might not…’ she began.

  Irritation simmered just below his control.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the girl at Reception and it’s easy to hire a taxi with special facilities for the disabled. I’ll be fine. And I’ll enjoy my solitude even more if I know you’re happy doing what you want to do.’

  ‘It won’t feel right…’

  ‘Naomi. Indulge me, please. Just give me my independence for part of one day.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what you really want. But if you’re not up to it in the morning we can always change our plans.’

  He’d been quiet but adamant next morning. She’d still been loath to go, spinning out her shower, extending breakfast.

  ‘Come on, Naomi. Think of those breakers you’re missing,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure…?

  ‘Sure I’m sure. Come here and give me a hug and then go and make the most of your last day here.’

  She’d lingered over the embrace.

  ‘Now, off you go,’ he said briskly. ‘Take loads of photos. And remember – don’t hurry back! I’ll be fine. ’

  The drive had been enjoyable but a strange restlessness stopped her from savouring the beauty of that far corner which had so captivated her three days earlier. Sitting with Adam watching the constant change of colour and pattern and direction, she had marvelled at the imagination of the people who had created exciting swimming pools out of natural rock pools. It had made her smile hearing the shrieks of the youngsters lined up with their backs to the wall when the ocean breakers had come crashing over the edge and deluged them.

  Today the magic eluded her. Her mind was elsewhere. The frolicking of the swimmers, the sight of bronzed couples smoothing protective oil into each other’s bare skin, lunching on her own; everything underlined Adam’s absence. She forced herself to stay but when the skies darkened and the first heavy drops of rain fell it was all the excuse she needed to head for the car.

  From Ponta do Sol onwards she drove slowly, her eyes scanning the sides of the road in search of Adam. He hadn’t been specific about his destination, nor how long he’d remain there. Would he be annoyed if she arrived to collect him earlier than he had intended leaving? She could always leave again, once she’d reassured herself.

  There was no sign of him from the road. She drove on. Their hotel room was empty. But it was too early to panic.

  Naomi went down to the swimming pool and did forty lengths, pushing herself hard, concentrating on her technique. She returned to their room. He was still not back.

  She walked slowly up the hill to a supermarket to stock up on fruit and juice, pausing several times to look back at the ocean, still and sparkling.

  Back at the hotel, the receptionist was sympathetic; she would ring the taxi firm, find out what time Mr O’Neill went out. After an animated exchange, she put the phone down, a smile on her face.

  ‘Carlos, he will come. He took your husband. He can show you.’

  Carlos drove like a maniac, presumably habitually. In every other respect he seemed to have no sense of emergency, stopping to gabble with a fellow cabbie, to buy cigarettes, to allow a herd of goats to change pastures in front of him.

  ‘Here I drop him.’

  She pressed money into his hand.

  ‘I wait? Yes?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  It was already getting dark. Carlos slouched against the bonnet, lit a cigarette, and watched her.

  ‘Adam!’ Her call sounded so puny in the vastness. Cupping her hands to her mouth she shouted his name more loudly, over and over, hearing it echoing through the valley.

  ‘He want go high.’ Carlos gesticulated vaguely.

  She ran back to him.

  ‘Show me! Where? Where exactly did you leave him?’

  Carlos moved in slow motion, but with agility and confidence, up a steep incline, to a ledge about twenty feet from the road.

  ‘But he couldn’t have climbed up here,’ Naomi stammered, suddenly afraid of this sullen man alone with her in the dimness.

  He spat out some Portuguese expletive. ‘I take.’

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘He want go. I take.’

  ‘He wanted you to take him up here?’

  Carlos nodded and stamped hard on the butt of his cigarette.

  Her agitated gaze darted all around them. Nothing.

  ‘Adam!’ she shrieked.

  Before she could repeat his name, Carlos suddenly swore and strode back down the slope, leaving her marooned on the ledge, with nothing between her and the ocean thundering onto the pebbles below.

  ‘Please…’

  But Carlos was already back on the road and vanishing into the denser shrubbery on the opposite side. Before she could move, his head re-emerged from the trees and he began shouting and waving to her. She crouched down, turning her back to the sheer drop, and began to climb gingerly back down the way they had come. She paused for a moment to steady herself on the security of the level road, but before she could begin the next descent, Carlos reappeared dragging something out of the bushes, his fierce language punctuated by gasping breaths.

  Adam!

  Fear paralysed her momentarily, then she flew towards him, falling on her knees beside his inert body. Her fingers went instinctively to his wrist. There was a pulse.

  ‘Quick, quick, we must get him in the car,’ she screamed.

  But Carlos had vanished again.

  Naomi crouched beside Adam, wrapping him in her jacket, crooning his name, darting glances into the gloom, wondering if she would ever see Carlos again.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he reappeared, this time dragging the wheelchair, its wheels immobilised by broken branches and tangled roots. He tossed it into the boot, picked up Adam and laid him on the back seat. Gesturing to Naomi to get in, he jumped into the driving seat, and roared off, once again at maniacal speed.

  The receptionist stared open-mouthed as Carlos strode into the foyer with Adam’s limp body.

  ‘Please, please, call a doctor!’ Naomi shouted. ‘Room 5!’ she shot at Carlos, running past him to fling open the door.

  By the time help arrived, she had covered Adam with blankets, and removed most of the leaves and twigs from his hair and clothes. The doctor’s presence somehow filled the room. He was very tanned with silver hair and stooped shoulders but there was nothing of retirement in his brisk manner.

  ‘Madison Wickham,’ he said without preamble. The American drawl was like music to her ears. ‘I’m staying in the hotel next door. What happened here?’

  In a few short sentences she blurted out the history, all she knew of it. Dr Wickham worked silently, feeling Adam’s pulse, peering into his eyes, palpating and tapping his chest and abdomen, carefully moving his limbs.

  ‘Well, Ms O’Neill, ma’am, I’m no specialist in trauma but it looks to me…’ He broke off abruptly, one hand feeling the pulse in Adam’s neck again.

  ‘Is anything… broken?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see. But we’d need X-rays to be sure.’

 
‘So why… isn’t he… waking up?’

  ‘Does he take medication, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes… I don’t know all the names. I could look in his bag…’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind. It might help.’

  He took the bottles from her, frowning at the labels, saying nothing.

  ‘He’s got Motor Neurone Disease,’ she said.

  ‘Any chance he took the dose wrong, ma’am?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know…’

  He was pulling Adam’s eyelids open again.

  ‘I’m a surgeon not a neurologist. These drugs don’t mean a whole lot to me.’

  ‘Would it help to speak to his doctor?’

  ‘Sure would. But...?’

  ‘He said we could ring. Any time.’

  ‘His neurologist said that?’ He was staring at her in amazement.

  ‘Oh no! Not his consultant. His GP. Family doctor?’

  ‘You brought his number with you?’

  She gestured towards the phone as she passed him the piece of paper. ‘Please use this. We’ll pay.’

  As Dr Wickham sat waiting for the connection, he watched Adam steadily, occasionally feeling his pulse or his forehead or peering at his pupils. When he got through, the questions shot down the line like bullets on a firing range. Then abruptly Dr Wickham turned and, gesturing towards the door, said quietly, ‘Ma’am, would you mind? Just for a few minutes.’

  When he called her back into the room her glance went instantly to Adam. He was still breathing.

  ‘Is he…?’

  ‘No real change, ma’am. Probably won’t be for some time, I guess.’

  ‘And Dr Curtis? Could he help?’

  ‘He was very helpful. He wants to talk to you himself so he’s going to ring you back in five minutes or so.’

  The doctor pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down, checking Adam’s vital signs yet again, but making no effort to leave the room.

  The ring of the phone made her jump.

  ‘Naomi?’ It was immensely reassuring to hear the familiar Scottish voice. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Adam. How are you?’