Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  Reading my hesitation as modesty, he pitched into his own rendition of some of my journalistic anecdotes. We were soon wallowing together in newspaper nostalgia and he left me with enough material to fill seven columns and a promise to return if the well ran dry prematurely. I would cheerfully siphon every drop of creative energy out manually to have him return with this kind of medicine.

  It was hard to drag myself away from the intensity of writing when Curtis called in at lunch-time two days later, but he too brought an offering – in this case, my novel. Unprepared for judgment, I knew a moment of sheer panic.

  ‘Tread gently, Doc. You tread on my dreams!’

  He was kind, said all the right things.

  ‘But…?’ I invited.

  ‘Well, I know you want me to be critical. There were a few places that didn’t quite ring true psychologically for me. I just don’t think Aidan would do or say certain things – see, where I’ve marked them.’ He flicked about six protruding yellow stickers with his thumb.

  His insight into the mind of Aidan was impressive. The thought flashed into my head, can I deal with that level of awareness probing my own personal words and actions? But Curtis was racing ahead of me, analysing, suggesting. I had to shelve the personal disquiet in order to concentrate on the fictional things he’d snagged on. Every query was constructive. I was totally persuaded of the necessity to re-write those sections and I wanted to get down to it then and there.

  But first I must complete my retrospective.

  So much stimulation in just a few hours!

  28 MAY—I’ve drafted Arkwright’s piece. But I’m not ready yet to let it go. It needs distance.

  Much as I accept the need for carers, I’m finding their intrusion into my mental life even more disturbing than their invasion of my physical privacy. Short of greeting them with a barked, ‘Don’t speak to me. I’m in a different world’, I don’t see any polite way of getting around it. I’m using the wakeful but safely silent hours of night to let my imagination run unfettered, committing whatever I retain to my machine next day. Should I get a dictaphone? I’ve tried using one in the past, but hated it. And it would disturb Naomi.

  It wouldn’t be quite so irritating if it were the same carer all the time; we could at least dispense with the preliminaries then. But this business of getting-to-know-you is a colossal waste of precious time. Then, of course, I might be stuck with one of the carers I like least. Some just grate. Period. ‘I am, therefore I irk’, as someone famously once said.

  On the other hand, it’s easier to let trained people heave me around, than to be forever worrying about what the strain is doing to Naomi. And it has stopped Joel hovering round her all the time.

  I’ve just finished jotting down all the sections of the novel I want to re-visit, with notes on Curtis’s criticisms. As soon as I’m free tomorrow, I intend to get stuck into that. Get it finished.

  After that I’ll return to Arkwright’s piece, give it one more polish. I want to go out with a bang not a fizzle.

  It occurs to me that I’m reaping the rewards of all that practice with this machine early in the year. Writing is still definitely my main therapy, a principal reason to go on living.

  29 MAY—I bargained without Joel. He didn’t arrive until after I’d been put to bed last night. Spur of the moment decision, he said. Naomi said she didn’t know he was coming either, but I saw the sparkle in her eyes. He reignites something in her.

  He wouldn’t hear of my finishing the article.

  ‘No way. I haven’t driven all up here to look at a closed door. Where shall we go?’

  I am suspicious of everyone’s motives these days. But I was grateful to him for making Naomi laugh again.

  Naomi let out a quivering sigh. Noelani stretched expansively in her lap. Mechanically she smoothed the silky fur.

  There had been precious little to smile about in those bleak days after Madeira. In spite of all the extra assistance with Adam’s physical needs she lived in a state of permanent tension. Not, to her surprise, because of the intrusion into her home, but rather because those strangers went away – leaving Adam alone. There had been no warning of his intention last time…

  Just knowing that he was seriously seeking an end to it all was hard enough. Not knowing when he might try again was a source of unrelieved anxiety.

  ‘Please, Adam. Share what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Pleeeease…’

  ‘It’s not that I won’t; I can’t. I don’t know myself. But one thing’s for sure I have no intention of continuing to ruin your life. And that’s final.’

  ‘You aren’t ruining it. I can’t bear to think of losing you. I don’t want it to be a second sooner than it has to be.’

  ‘Any idiot can see I’m nothing but a burden.’

  ‘You are not! It’s much more of a burden worrying all the time that you’re going to do something silly.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, then. It’s my problem. I’ll sort it. I don’t want you getting dragged into this. ’

  She’d pleaded until he snapped.

  ‘Okay. Help me, then. Put a pillow over my face. That’ll put an end to all your worry. And mine.’

  She’d left the room precipitately. The thought of him being alone in that kind of mood forced her back. But no amount of apologising could erase the damage. She reverted to tiptoeing around his silences. Only with Joel could she be brutally honest, pour out her frustration and share the sense of isolation. Only when he visited could she occasionally see a glimpse of the old Adam.

  1 JUNE—Four days of Joel’s company and I feel surprisingly reinvigorated. Somehow his very normality restores my equilibrium. His constant good humour is at once a reproach and a therapy. His humorous take on life sends me to bed with a mind free to let the subconscious do its work.

  I now have pages of notes ready for revisions to my novel. Joel must get a large acknowledgement. And tonight I’ve finished Arkwright’s piece. I’ll email it to him tomorrow.

  Only lost in the absorption of writing or sparring with Joel can I find peace from this endless turmoil.

  2 JUNE—Mailed off the retrospective. Finished the revisions to the novel. Emailed them to Curtis.

  Lydia was harassed today. Three times during our session someone came in to ask her to do something else. Without her inimitable banter, the exercises lacks sparkle.

  I didn’t linger.

  3 JUNE—What now? What am I clinging on for?

  I want to hear Curtis’s comments.

  Ideally I’d like the satisfaction of knowing my book has been accepted somewhere.

  But I don’t want to see Naomi getting more and more exhausted. I don’t want to feel the distance between us increasing.

  That was the evening… Naomi leaned back in Adam’s chair, closing her eyes, remembering. She’d arrived home from work to find the table in the conservatory laid, a white rose in the centre, a bottle of wine cooling. There was no sign of Adam and a sick dread had stopped her in her tracks, her own pulse thudding in her ears.

  A muffled sound sent her sprinting up the stairs. Adam – very much still alive – was struggling to get an arm into a clean white shirt. He’d been sheepish rather than angry, in a hurry to be ready for the delivery of a Chinese carry-out, glad of her assistance.

  The whole evening had been a break from hostilities. She relaxed in the warmth, savouring something of the old Adam. He offered no explanation; she sought none.

  4 JUNE—I’m stunned. Why didn’t she tell me? Is it tit for tat?

  It all started innocently enough, in my study. I was rummaging in the drawers of my desk for a letter I know I received from the Inland Revenue recently, when I came across my mother’s pills. I’d forgotten all about them.

  The bathroom cabinet seemed as safe a place as anywhere, high up and with a proper catch. It was, of course, virtually inaccessible for a man on a zimmer frame, but I was determined. When it eventually sprang open, m
y clumsiness sent a cascade of boxes and bottles crashing to the floor. I cursed under my breath. Since when did we keep so much stuff in there?

  In amongst the vitamins and herbal potions, it was the neat row of names on the packaging that caught my attention. Days of the week? We’ve never been ones for prescriptions, never mind daily doses. Fortunately I was leaning on my frame while I read the packaging. The words burned themselves into my brain.

  How long? How long has she been secretly thwarting my desire to become a father? And why hasn’t she discussed it with me? Damn it, I’ve been contemplating going for fertility tests myself! Imagine the humiliation.

  With no idea how the boxes and bottles had been stashed on the shelf, I couldn’t even attempt to replace them without her knowing, even if my fingers had been capable of obeying my brain. I just picked them up, one by one, and put them on the windowsill. My mother’s collection of pills I returned to my desk.

  No point in them being inaccessible.

  If I was looking for an effective way to prevent a single creative thought cluttering up my brain, I’d found it.

  By the time Naomi came home from work I had withdrawn into a very deep defensive place. She was still in the slightly euphoric state of yesterday. I mumbled some sort of confession about being unable to fit Mother’s tablets into the cabinet, having to leave things out for her to put away. She smiled – actually smiled! – said something like, ‘No problem’, and went off to do it.

  I watched her face when she returned.

  Nothing was said.

  Nothing.

  She just got on with making a cup of tea. She held the door open for me to stagger out to the garden, sat beside me on the seat outside the back door drinking her tea and just took her cue from last night.

  She talked about the good showing of azaleas this year, the invasion of moss in the lawn, her plan to prune the escallonia harder next time. She told me about a difficult mother she’d been with that day. She talked about other families – anything, everything, except the one thing that blocked out every other thought from my brain: our own family – or rather, lack of it.

  I didn’t confront her there and then, only because I’d had time enough to realise that I was afraid of what I might unleash. Or maybe because I knew she had an unarguable case: I didn’t tell her that I was going to take my life, why should she tell me she’s taking steps to avoid creating a new one?

  I was still awake when she came to bed. I lay artificially still. I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. I was still awake at 3 o’clock. I still said nothing of my discovery.

  What would she have said if he had confronted her? Because he said nothing, she’d assumed he hadn’t paid any attention to the pills specifically, and forgotten about it. A far worse skeleton hung in her cupboard.

  5 JUNE—I can’t get my mother’s drugs out of my head. There they are, within reach. The only wonder is I haven’t considered them before.

  Coproxamol. For arthritis and back pain. There’s a warning against more than eight a day. Looks like it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle to swallow enough. But I have to think this through carefully. What if I choke part way through? What if I vomit them back up? What if I’m so slow that I fall asleep before I’ve taken enough? Or worse still, what if I’m discovered in the attempt? I can’t take that risk – not again.

  Is it the novel holding me back? Naomi and Curtis between them could do what it takes to find a publisher. My death might even lend it a marketing edge.

  How much they had lost. Trust, communication, sharing; they’d been the building blocks of their relationship. What had gone wrong?

  His MND; that’s what had gone wrong.

  The discovery of her contraceptives had obviously been a severe enough blow to him. She had been right to protect him from the gravest decision of her life. She couldn’t have coped with his reaction.

  Only Dr Curtis and the staff at the hospital knew. Oh, and Joel – and only because he’d caught her at a moment of weakness.

  She forced herself back from that bleak moment. She had to share Adam’s own emotion in the light of what he knew then.

  8 JUNE—I decided today to sort out my papers. I want to know everything is in order.

  It was meant to distract me from all these questions that refuse to be stilled, but half-way through the morning I came across a photograph of Naomi and me on holiday in Cornwall five years ago. Wall-to-wall sunshine, I remember, days packed with activity, nights full of love. The pictures in my head are bolder, brighter, more painful. How confident we were, back then, in our mutual decision to defer parenthood. It was a shock seeing her youthfulness, realising how these last two years have robbed her of her radiance.

  The sudden ring of the doorbell startled me. It was the new incumbent at the local manse, Rev. Ernest Kane, getting to know his potential parishioners. He’s gangly, fiftyish, spectacles that went out of fashion ten years ago, suede shoes with toes scuffed to burnished leather. I liked his entire lack of ostentation. I liked the way he readily accepted a cup of coffee, and just accompanied me to the kitchen at my pace, making no attempt to take over.

  I’d lay odds it’s the first household he’s visited where he’s been drawn into a discussion about fatal diseases and euthanasia within half an hour of arriving, but he seemed completely unfazed. I was more at ease with this stranger after twenty minutes than with many of my acquaintances of years’ standing. He radiates understanding and compassion. Don’t ask me how, he just does. I’ve become something of a connoisseur on such matters.

  My mother would have said his coming was ‘meant to be’.

  He asked directly about my MND and he really listened to the answers. Without a trace of superiority, he corrected my first misperception (as he saw it): No, not all churchmen are opposed to euthanasia. The religious spokesmen who are trotted out to make position statements, don’t necessarily reflect mainstream religious opinion.

  ‘Self-selected, then.’

  ‘Something of that sort. And in fact, market research has shown that most church-goers actually favour compassion over rigid rules condemning merciful intervention.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Not my mother! And she was as “religious” as they come.’

  Somehow he coaxed me into talking about her particular straitjacket. It was like lifting anchor. A fresh wind blew in my sails; I gathered momentum.

  ‘Ah yes.’ He made me feel as if he’d met my mother personally. ‘But you see, some people need rigid boundaries to feel safe, and I don’t personally think we should rob such people of their security. It takes courage and a different order of understanding to accept shades of grey, to work out your own solution.’

  ‘“Work out your own salvation with trembling and fear”,’ I quoted.

  ‘Precisely.’ He grinned back at me.

  ‘My mother again. A verse for every situation.’

  ‘Ah. She sounds to have been quite a character. It never really leaves you, that kind of upbringing, does it?’

  ‘No, indeed. I can quote more of the King James’ Bible than of any other book I’ve ever studied. Thanks entirely to her.’

  He nodded – without judgment.

  ‘I gather this is a personal issue for you?’ he said, perfectly matter-of-factly.

  ‘It is.’ I hesitated, looking at him hard. ‘Am I allowed to ask what you think?’

  There was a long pause, but no sense of discomfort.

  ‘Strictly within the safety of these four walls? I think doctors should be able to help people die with dignity – where the situation is intolerable. But please don’t quote me on that. We humble servants of the church can’t really divorce ourselves from our dog collars, much as some of us like to go around incognito.’ He has a most engaging grin, this guy.

  ‘But doctors aren’t too keen on that idea. It’s not just theoretical for them.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And for people like me
their resistance is a live issue. It leaves me very little choice.’

  He waited quietly, holding my gaze without embarrassment or fear.

  ‘From where I stand, it’s a form of cruelty. Nature is cruel. This disease is cruel. Doctors are cruel if they use every ingenuity at their disposal to prolong my suffering. It would be a true kindness if they’d listen to my request, recognise its sincerity, and help me.’

  He nodded, still without speaking.

  ‘All I’m asking for is help in dying when the burden of life outweighs the benefits of continuing. I don’t want to foul up the job trying to do it myself.’

  ‘You think you would?’

  ‘I know I did.’

  He didn’t probe. I found myself respecting this unusual man more and more.

  ‘Aside from their scruples, do you have good people taking care of you?’

  ‘The best.’

  I tried to tell him about Curtis and Lydia and… but emotion strangled the words.

  ‘Keep talking to them,’ he said gently. ‘You’re very persuasive. You have real life experience on your side. You’ll find a way. Let me know if I can help. I’d like to be on your side.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks for listening.’

  ‘A pleasure. Thanks for talking to me. And for the coffee. You’ve compensated for all the doors that are closed in my face.’

  He drained his mug and then leaned forward with both hands on his knees as if he was about to rise – but didn’t.

  ‘When you wanted to remember names or numbers, what used you to do? As a journalist, I mean.’

  ‘I made up associations. Or jotted them down on scraps of paper till I got back to the office – and prayed I wouldn’t forget where I’d written them! Why?’

  ‘I was in hospital visiting a few parishioners yesterday and I noticed nurses and doctors jotting things down – on paper towels, on the back of their hands. They used to scribble on the hems of their aprons in the old days when aprons were starched cotton and not these flimsy plastic affairs they wear today. Speaks volumes for the efficiency of their hygiene, eh?!’