Echoes of a Life

by Robin Byron

  Jake sighed. ‘Yes, it’s our paper, I’m afraid – but I had no idea that…’

  ‘Of course not – but you can imagine how distressing it is for her.’

  ‘I’m going,’ said Anna.

  ‘No, stay,’ said Leah. ‘Please stay. Maybe they won’t go ahead at all now – what do you think, Jake?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I think this is fate intervening,’ Leah said. ‘The Chronicle have rescued Gran. It’s like a miracle.’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that, darling,’ said Callum.

  ‘I really need to go,’ said Anna. ‘It’s too hard for me. Yesterday, when she say goodbye, I cry all night. I can’t say goodbye again.’

  Jake watched as Leah hugged Anna. Both were crying now.

  Up in her room, Marianne preferred not to think what would happen if she was sent home. She tried to clear her mind of all the jumble of thoughts. Callum and Helen came in and out without knowing what to do. Everyone thought they had to say something, but nothing made much sense. Was the room too hot, or perhaps too cold? A sip of water, maybe? Listen to some music? Something on the television screen would pass the time? Marianne declined. Nikhita Singh came in, looking a lot more frightened than Marianne herself. Was everything still OK? Any particular concerns? (You’ve got to be joking.) A decision was expected any minute, or soon, certainly within the hour, without fail by lunchtime (lunchtime – what the hell has lunch got to do with dying?). What if normal service could not be resumed? If ‘procedures’ were permanently suspended? No one dared ask. Just keep on waiting. Was she alright? they kept asking. Yes, yes, yes, she repeated, though she had lost any sense of what alright meant for her. Perhaps this is how all life ends, she thought, spouting nonsense to each other like Didi and Gogo. Impossible to die because the rope’s too short or the belt has broken – and Godot will surely come, only not quite yet.

  When it happened, and the moratorium was lifted, time seemed to speed up alarmingly. Marianne didn’t know how she felt because everything was happening so fast. The doctor came in for his last check to ensure that her mind was sound and that she still wished to end her life. She signed the final consent form.

  Jake and Leah appeared in her room. Jake came forward and kissed her. ‘Thank you for everything – and for being there for me in France…’ he said.

  ‘Goodbye, Jake,’ she said.

  Then Leah came to kiss her; half lying on the bed, she pushed her wet face against Marianne and emitted a small choking noise. ‘… love you, Gran.’

  ‘I love you too, darling. Good luck with everything – you’ll make a success of your life, I know.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Gran – don’t kill your self. Please, please don’t do it. I love you – don’t do it…’

  ‘Leah, darling, you promised…’ said Helen, taking hold of Leah’s arm.

  ‘I don’t want you to die, please, Gran. We can take you home…’

  ‘Leah…’

  ‘I love you, Gran,’ Leah said again through her choking sobs. ‘I love you.’

  Helen slowly prised her from the bed. ‘Come on, darling…’

  Leah stood and turned. ‘I hate you,’ she said, looking at her mother. ‘Both of you… Why are you letting this happen?’

  Callum looked at Jake who came forward and took Leah in his arms. ‘I think we should leave now,’ he said.

  ‘So, so wrong…’ she said, as Jake led her from the room.

  There was a moment of silence when the door closed behind them. Then Callum said, ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t be. She’s a wonderful child. You should be proud of her.’

  When Jake and Leah had left the room, the doctor returned and began to explain the procedure while Callum and Helen hovered in the background.

  ‘I am now going to put an intravenous line into your arm,’ he said, and putting on his gloves he applied a tourniquet to her upper arm, wiped the skin over her expanded vein, and inserted the needle. With a flick of his wrist he removed the tourniquet and put some strapping around the line, bandaging it to her arm. ‘I am first going to connect this to a simple solution of saline, but when the time comes it will be connected to two separate lines.’

  Ah yes, she thought, when the time comes; not so long now.

  ‘One of the lines,’ the doctor continued, ‘connects to a powerful anaesthetic. When the anaesthetic reaches your brain, you will become unconscious. This takes around thirty seconds at the most from when you turn it on. A small computer-controlled machine, attached by electrodes, which I will apply to your scalp, will detect when you are unconscious and then release another drug which relaxes your body to such an extent that after about five minutes you will stop breathing. Shortly thereafter your heart will stop. Once you are asleep you will not be aware of any of this.

  ‘Now I need to attach these monitors which will record your heartbeat and blood pressure.’ He applied a clip to Marianne’s finger and wrapped a cuff around her upper arm on the opposite side. She could hear a machine beeping in time to her heartbeat. The doctor muted the volume. ‘When the time comes’ (ah, that time again) ‘the line will be connected here,’ he said, pointing to a large piece of apparatus near to the bed, ‘and you will turn this dial one half turn to the right.’ He showed her the small hand-held device the size of a mobile phone, attached to a connecting cable. ‘You understand that once you have turned the dial your death becomes inevitable and cannot be halted?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I understand.’

  The doctor looked down at Marianne and smiled. ‘Now you’re all set. I’ll leave you alone with your family for a while and they can let me know when you are ready.’

  Marianne was not sure how much more time she needed with Callum and Helen, but suddenly they were alone together and all three seemed to realise that this was indeed almost the end.

  ‘Still absolutely sure about this, Mum?’ Callum said.

  ‘Yes, darling, still sure.’

  Helen came to stand by the bed. She squeezed Marianne’s hand and bent forward to kiss her. ‘Goodbye and God bless you, Marianne,’ she said, before turning away. She seemed genuinely distressed.

  Callum then began a little speech about what a wonderful mother she had been to him and she let him go on, although somehow she seemed to have lost the ability to connect the words to any meaning. When he had finished he also kissed her. She asked for a few moments alone to compose herself.

  So, this is it, she thought. I wish I could say that I am filled with some profound thoughts or some unique spiritual insight but my mind is all fog and emptiness. My heart, though, seems to have become a furious engine, pulsating through my body with unnecessary and unexpected urgency. My breathing is fast and shallow.

  They say the anaesthetic is like a tsunami sweeping over you, but I imagine it as a huge waterfall – like the one in Brazil that Edward and I visited with Izzy when she was quite young. I started my river journey when I came to the clinic a few weeks ago and I have been paddling my canoe slowly down stream since then. Once or twice I have been tempted to manoeuvre to the side and climb out, but every time I’ve been close to the bank the jungle has looked dense and unappealing; so I have just gone on paddling. At times, I have stopped paddling entirely but it makes no difference; the current just sweeps me on.

  Now I am almost on top of the falls. I can hear the roar of the water as it cascades into the abyss below but the edge is hidden in the mist. I find I have Izzy in my arms. Her hands are clinging around my neck. I lie back and shut my eyes, clasping her tight to my chest. The noise is overwhelming and I feel the spray, soft and cool on my face. I sense I am on the brink and the boat is beginning to tip forward, and as it does so I open my eyes and through the mist I see huge blue butterflies circling in shafts of multi-coloured sunlight, but as we start to fall I shut my eyes again; there a
re no butterflies now as we plunge into the dark void.

  Marianne heard the door open; they were coming back into the room.

  ‘Mum?’ Callum’s voice, distant. ‘Would you like more time?’

  ‘No, come in.’ A whisper.

  ‘The doctor and nurse are here now…’

  Silence.

  ‘Just a little bit of this gel on your head, and now I will attach the pads.’ The doctor’s voice. She felt the cold of the electrodes on her temples. Silence again.

  ‘Just connecting up to the pumps.’

  Another pause.

  ‘All set now.’ She felt the control box in her hands. ‘Whenever you feel ready, Mrs Davenport.’

  ‘I love you, Mum.’ Callum’s voice, whispering.

  Marianne tried to turn the dial but her hand, slippery with sweat, slid off.

  Silence. The sound of whispering. The doctor’s voice: ‘…must do it herself.’

  She wiped her hand on her hospital gown.

  A long silence. Someone coughed.

  She tried again. A hum, a growing roar – then nothing. Nothing ever again.

  36

  Three months later

  Two men sat at a table near the window. They appeared to be playing cards. One of the men was old, a small amount of grey hair covering an almost bald head. His face was lined and looked distorted, one side drooping down to where a dribble of saliva hung suspended from the corner of his mouth. Using one hand he carefully took a card from his pile and placed it face up in front of him.

  He looked across to the younger man, one eye staring intently, the other wandering unfocused around the room. The younger man, who might have been approaching fifty, smiled and gave a slight shake of his head. Then the younger man took a card and placed it face up in front of him. The old man stared at the card, then up again at the younger man, who once again shook his head.

  The process was repeated several times. Then, after the old man had put down a card, the younger man looked up and smiled and the old man started to wave his hand around. ‘SNAP,’ he shouted. ‘Snap, snap, snap. Whit dae say tae that, laddie? Ah won that – didn’t ah?’

  The younger man picked up a pile of cards and tucked them under the old man’s pile. ‘Good one,’ he said.

  They seemed to have stopped playing now and the younger man was talking, though whether to the old man or to himself wasn’t clear. Fragmented sentences drifted across the room. ‘… miss her, you know… so much. But now I’ve found you, eh? Need to look after you, don’t I…? Won’t desert you. Promise.’ The old man’s face moved into a crooked smile.

  Two nurses looked on indulgently from the doorway. ‘It’s wonderful to see. You know he come two or three times a week.’

  ‘Does he realise who he is?’

  ‘I don’t think so, not really, but perhaps it doesn’t matter. He enjoys the visits so much – calls him laddie. Asks where his laddie is. He’s always so excited to see him.’

  ‘Your paper stirred up quite a hornets’ nest,’ said Claire, as Jake settled himself onto a sofa in her elegant drawing room.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘all the old arguments are being rehearsed again. I see things in a different light now – but you can’t put the clock back. Nothing much will change.’

  Claire brought a drink over to Jake and sat down in her usual chair. ‘I’m afraid you’re probably right. AD has become too well established. And there seems to be a movement in some quarters saying that all this fuss is because the law is too restrictive.’

  ‘Yes – some say AD on demand would simplify the issue.’

  ‘It would be ironic if that was the outcome of the inquiry.’

  ‘It will come eventually, I’m convinced. No “safeguards” – just a right to die.’

  ‘Followed shortly by a duty to die.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Why not? After all, we have a duty to be healthy now – society and the state demand it. Why should the state resist if people begin to feel they have a duty to die?’

  ‘The slippery slope?’

  ‘Accept it – perhaps we do have such a duty, and anyway, society won’t accept the burden of the old for ever.’

  ‘You know, poor Marianne was caught up in the drama – she was kept waiting at the clinic while the bosses in Holland wondered what to do.’

  ‘I never meant you to rush off to Cambridge and throw yourself at Marianne’s feet.’

  ‘It was Anna who persuaded us. It was a horrible business – Leah was traumatised. Anna is still in England, you know – she’s got another job. She and Leah have become quite close.’

  ‘Are you still with Leah?’

  ‘Absolutely. She didn’t get the Cambridge place that Marianne dreamed of – but she’s got a place at UCL and she’s very happy with that.’

  ‘You realise she’ll probably dump you once she starts there?’

  Jake laughed. ‘So different from your sister, Granny – not a romantic bone in your body. You may be right, but I certainly hope not. Leah is really important to me.’

  ‘She cost you your job.’

  ‘That was Helen’s doing. A formal complaint. Sexual exploitation of an intern. Leah was mortified – it’s caused a real breach between her and her mother.’

  ‘So what about Callum? Tell me about him finding his real father.’

  ‘Yes, before she died, Marianne confessed to Callum that Andy had lived on after the crash that killed Isabelle – but she also said he died fifteen years ago. Callum is certain she believed that, but he decided to find out a bit more about what had happened. He discovered that Andy had lived with his mother until he was about forty; and then it seems he had a succession of strokes and ended up in a home in Glasgow. There he lived as a mentally retarded semi-invalid. His mother died about five years ago and since then he was not known to have any living relatives.’

  ‘Quite a sad story.’

  ‘Yes – so anyway, when Callum found him, and proved to the authorities that he was Andy’s son, he managed to get him moved to a home on the edge of London where he visits him several times a week. Just sits with him, talks to him – sometimes, he said, they play simple games. Apparently, Andy doesn’t understand that Callum is his son but he seems to appreciate the visits.’

  ‘What a dutiful man.’

  ‘Yes, really noble. Leah’s been with him a few times, seeing her lost grandfather, but I think she finds it too depressing.’

  ‘And Helen?’

  ‘She’s gone back to Australia. They are having a period of separation – to use Callum’s words.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘No, but I feel sorry for Callum. Marianne may have thought she was doing him a favour but I think the manner of her death was more traumatic for him than he let on.’

  ‘It was to do with Marianne that I got you over today. Before she died she sent me a last message – I’ve got a print of it here.’

  Jake took the piece of paper from Claire and began to read.

  My dearest Claire,

  This is a final goodbye. It’s midnight now and Callum and Helen have gone to bed. Tomorrow morning we go to the clinic.

  Please don’t feel sorry for me. I’m going to die the way I want. Callum will send you all the diaries and my notes. Try to persuade Jake to finish the project – I had thought of making a novel out of it – maybe he’d like to have a go. And tell him I hope it works out for him and Leah and I’m not sorry for encouraging her. I know I’m a foolish old woman – but I loved when I was very young and you don’t forget.

  Marianne

  ‘I hope you never do what she did, Granny. Unless you really have to.’

  ‘I doubt I would have the courage. What Marianne did may not have been necessary but I believe it was brave.’

  Jake nodded; he remem
bered Marianne’s little speech to him when he had visited her.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ said Claire. ‘You don’t have to decide immediately, but I am prepared to pay you a salary for six months if you want to give it a go. Before you get another job.’

  ‘I don’t need time to think – that’s an incredibly generous offer.’

  ‘It will be for Marianne. In her memory. A tribute from her family. Now you had better go. Come back on Monday and we’ll work out the details.’

  ‘I will,’ said Jake, ‘and thank you again.’ Kissing his grandmother goodbye, he walked down the graceful staircase, let himself out through the front door and stepped down into the darkening street.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to express my gratitude to all those writers and bloggers who have written so eloquently about their thoughts and experiences as they approached their own imminent death, whether voluntary or involuntary, and have thereby given me some small insight into what it would be like to be in that position.

  Aspects of the legislation imagined in this novel are taken from the Assisted Dying Bill, introduced in the House of Lords in July 2014, although I have extended it beyond those who are terminally ill. A number of countries have enacted legislation comparable to that envisaged.

  I am greatly indebted to the authors of An American Family in Moscow (Little Brown, 1975) for descriptions of life in the USSR in the early 1970s, which inform the early chapters of this book. I have quoted the late Sir Terry Pratchett from an article he wrote for the Sunday Times (26-06-11); the quotation about the Liverpool Pathway is taken from the Daily Telegraph (01-11-12). There were many similar articles around that time.

  I am indebted to Professor Innes Merabishvili of Tbilisi State University for introducing me to Georgia and the beauty of the Caucasus, where I discovered both Lermontov and the delights of Georgian cooking.

  I would like to thank consultant anaesthetist Dr Eric Lawes for his advice on the end of life medical procedures described. Within my own family I would like to thank my daughter Emily who typed the first draft for me and offered advice; my daughter Sophie whose image adorns the front cover; my wife Robyn who has had to put up with all my preoccupations while writing the book and other members of my family for their ideas and encouragement.