by Steve Hawke
Final Exit. It is where all roads lead, in his mind, if a diagnosis is confirmed. It is one of the reasons he hates trying to think about the whole thing, let alone contemplate talking about it. If the drooling vacancy of Uncle Georgeness is to be avoided, he can see no alternative. The only real question is one of timing, and that is the terrifyingly tricky bit. That and method.
He’d started researching the method issue on the net, using the office computer on slow days to ensure privacy. ‘Suicide’ on google produced 74,300,000 hits in 1.06 seconds. Scary. ‘Euthanasia kits’ narrowed it down to 36,000 hits. Philip Nitschke’s site gave him the creeps: happy snaps of couples in Mexico buying their Nembutal pills, and the machines smacked of home handyman enthusiasts, a breed he’d always shied away from. There was even a site that started playing the ‘Suicide Is Painless’ theme from MASH when you opened it. He explored long enough to establish that Final Exit seemed to be regarded as the authoritative text.
Joe doesn’t embarrass easily, but asking for the book at Elizabeth’s—the second-hand bookshop in the city—he blushed like an adolescent. He’d tried looking himself with no luck. The girl behind the counter didn’t bat an eyelid as she said she wasn’t sure, but he could try the Do It Yourself section. And there it was, amongst the home handyman guides!
He pulls the book out from under the bed. Did a surviving partner flog it off after his or her other half did the deed? Maybe someone who’d chickened out? Or …? And someone really should speak to Elizabeth’s about how Humphry’s book finished up next to a tome on wood-turning.
You’re getting offtopic again Joseph.
But in Joe’s view of the world, the thread between his failing memory and the nostrums of Final Exit cannot be broken.
Somewhere in the small hours he drifts off, no closer to deciding how to deal with tomorrow. By the time he wakes, Eric is breakfasted and packed, getting anxious about his lift to the airport, and Anne is about to head for her coffee date with Greta.
Anne takes off, with a fierce hug for Eric, and an admonition to please ask if there is anything, anything at all they can do for him. But before she walks out the door she gives Joe a meaningful look over the top of her glasses.
In a panic he resorts to the coward’s option. He leaves Dr Sykes’ report on the bench with a note—Please read darling—before he heads to the airport with Eric.
AN AWFUL ARRAY
‘This is beyond bizarre Joe!’
Anne contemplates with horror the array he has laid out on the coffee table. Dr Sykes’ report. Oven bag, large. Rubber bands, heavy duty. Pills. Mask. Cap. And a book called Final Exit. She thinks she heard what he said. Something about a test run. But it’s not computing properly.
‘I’m not saying it makes sense!’ Joe is overloud in his angry defensiveness. He can’t look at her, but he manages to bring himself down to something less than a shout. ‘I preferred avoidance and denial actually. But I’ve lost that option, haven’t I. I’m saying that—in my head at least—there’s a thread runs between one and the other. That fucken report, and that fucken book. And until I connect the dots between them, I don’t think I can start to deal with it.’
It is nonsense to her ears, but it is also the closest he has come all day to a coherent string of sentences. She wants to be elsewhere. She wants to wind back the clock and have this ugly day unfold in some different, vaguely rational scenario. But the agonised intensity of his words makes her fear he may implode. The scab may have been ripped off, but the fermented pressure within him has not been released.
When she picked up the report Joe had left on the kitchen bench this morning, it had taken a while to understand what she was reading. The penny drop was like the falling of the first stone from a mountain path. As the hours dragged on, that stone has snowballed into an avalanche of nightmarish unreality. A day seared into her soul.
She has oscillated between fury and anguish. He has seemed almost catatonic, his unreachability reminding her of some of the autistic kids she has taught.
She has tried to hold him, to touch him, but he has drawn away each time.
Again and again he has seemed about to talk, but has frozen, and turned away from her to resume his pacing.
Frozen by what exactly?
Shame? Deserved.
Guilt? Doubly deserved.
Fear? Fair enough, probably. But she can’t talk to him, can’t get beyond the sterile, formal language of the report.
And she has never, ever, seen him like this.
Every instinct is screaming, ‘No. Refuse.’ But a contrary voice tells her—hateful as this ‘test’ seems—to not reject him at this moment.
THE BAG
Anne forces herself to read aloud the passage he has marked.
‘With two thumbs, hold the elastic stretched out a few inches from the Adam’s apple, allowing a supply of air to get in. So that your arms will drop when you fall asleep, do not support your arms on pillows or armrests.’
Joe adjusts himself to make sure his elbows are well clear. The movement causes a rustling noise as the oven bag scrapes against the peak of the cap—Bayswater Netball Association, Under 16 Premiers. It’s one of Claire’s taken from the top of her old wardrobe; Joe’s not a cap man.
Anne looks up at the noise, and a cold shiver runs through her. As well as the cap, Joe is wearing a dust mask, and over the lot sits the see-through oven bag, with Joe, as instructed, holding the rubber bands away from his throat. The overall effect could not possibly be more unnerving. She steels herself to continue.
‘Wait until the sleep aids take effect, and as sleep overwhelms you allow the hands to drop and the elastic bands to close firmly around the neck.’
Joe lets his hands drop. The bag starts to noisily inflate and deflate with his breathing. Anne is now choking on the words as she reads.
‘Breathing will continue normally. Holding the bag open until you feel ready to go is the key to the acceptability of the entire procedure.’
She slams Final Exit shut, and throws the book violently at Joe. ‘Get that fucking thing off! Now!’
He was already starting to, but when the book hits him, short of oxygen from thirty seconds in the bag, and disoriented by the induced claustrophobia, he starts to panic. His first attempts to get his thumbs under the rubber bands are unsuccessful, and suddenly he is clawing frantically. The bands snap when he manages to hook a finger underneath and yank. His head jerks backwards, thumping against the hard top bar of the chair frame, bringing on an instant headache as he wrenches the bag and cap off, and tears the dust mask away. He subsides in the chair, gasping wildly at first, then breathing as deeply as he can to bring his pulse rate down.
GLORIA
Don’t lose it girl.
Anne has to grip the bench and consciously gather herself. With an immense effort of will, she manages to dial back by a few notches the rage she is feeling.
She grabs a bottle of red, fills two glasses almost to the brim, takes a gulp from one and refills it before heading back into the living room.
‘I think I’ve torn the bag.’
‘Aisle eleven at Coles,’ she snaps.
‘Jesus you gave me a fright.’
‘Poor you. Poor fucking Joe. Here.’ She thrusts a glass at him, heedless of the spillage, and sinks into the sofa. And she suddenly realises that the boil has burst. Weird, autistic-like Joe has disappeared. He is just his maddening self.
Joe is desperately trying to sound calm, normal. ‘I’m not sure about those rubber bands—pretty bloody fiddly, and they bite into my neck something awful. I might have to try making up those velcro ribbons they talk about.’
Anne kicks the book across the floor to him. ‘The key to acceptability!’
Joe picks Final Exit up, smooths out a page that has become crumpled. ‘He’s right though you know. There’d be absolutely nothing worse than buggering it up; having to psych yourself up all over again, or maybe even becoming a vegetable. And for all the stuff
on the net, and fancy machines, this is the simplest and safest—pills and a bag.’
He puts the book on the arm of the sofa and sips at his wine. ‘If you do it right.’
Another sip. ‘Maybe you should read this, Anne. It might help you understand where I’m coming from.’
Finally he looks at her, properly, but with the downcast air of an underling reporting unwelcome news. ‘And he seems to think it’s best … for all parties, if there’s a loved one present.’
‘I don’t care what he thinks Joe. I don’t want to watch you die. I don’t want to come back and find you with a bloody bag over your head either for that matter. But if that’s the only choice I get, I’ll take it. What do you think I should do when you make your big decision? Pop out for a drink with the girls? Sit in the next room and read a good book?’
‘Anne!’
‘Are you planning to let me know? Or will you just spring it one day?’
‘Of course I will. What d’you think this exercise has been about?’
‘That is exactly what I’ve been wondering. Giving me the heebie-jeebies?’
Anne tosses back the rest of her glass and stalks out to the kitchen. Joe knows he should back off, but when she re-emerges, bottle in hand, he can’t help himself. ‘Are you sure you should be having another one?’
‘Joe bloody Warton! Are you going to start lecturing me about drinking now! You know very well I only ever drink more than two glasses if I’m seriously upset. Any idea why I might be upset darling?’
He puts his hands up in surrender and apology. ‘I’ve stuffed this up haven’t I.’
‘Big-time. What is it about the Y chromosome? It’s like that little missing bit held the magic key to … to … what is it with you Joe … it’s not self-awareness exactly. It’s … it’s the capacity to step outside your own damn construction of the world every now and then and imagine how others experience it. Is it a Y thing? I’m probably being unfair to half the men out there.’
‘I’m not following, Annie Badger.’
‘It’s not an Annie Badger moment, Joe. Do you actually realise how weirdly you’ve been acting today?’
He doesn’t answer, but his shamefaced expression suggests that he has a pretty fair idea. She reaches for the bottle and tops up his and then her own. ‘All I know so far is what’s in the report from your secret visit to this neurophysicist woman—’
‘Neuropsychologist.’
‘Whatever. And you’ve jumped from that to tonight’s performance. Bit of foreplay always helps Joe. You know, prepare the ground!’
‘Point taken.’
‘I’m not trying to score points, you silly bastard.’
‘I’m not saying you were.’
‘What I’m trying to say, is that quite apart from—what shall I call it?—your emotional insensitivity, you seem to have skipped about seventeen steps in the logic chain from forgetting where you left your car to topping yourself. Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves? Or is there a whole lot more you haven’t got round to telling me yet?’
Joe shakes his head. Licks a finger and rubs pointlessly at the wine stain on his shirt. ‘I’m on the back foot now aren’t I. Yes, yes and yes. I concede to everything you’ve said. Almost.’
‘What’d I get wrong?’
‘The self-awareness thing. Empathy for others. I’m not that bad am I?’
‘Oh, you’re fine with the theoretical, and the twice or thrice removed. It’s the personal I’m talking about. You and me.’
She heads over to the stereo cabinet, scrabbles through the CDs till she finds the one she is after, and slides it in. The bass chords of the keyboard thrum through the room.
‘Patti Smith!’
‘It’s good angry music.’
She leans back in the sofa, eyes closed, thumping the rhythm and mouthing the words.
Eventually he ventures, ‘Still angry?’
‘Still angry … G—L—Ooooo—R—I-i-i-i-Aaa,’ she chants it out at the top of her voice. ‘Gloriaaaa!’
‘Should I sneak off to bed before I get into more trouble? Or see if we can talk it through?’
‘’Fess up.’
She ignores his beckoning to come and sit on his lap in the recliner, moving to the music, as if she is still contemplating whether to give her attention to him or Patti.
He struggles to talk over the music. ‘We’ve talked about it before. Alzheimer’s …’ he waits for her response, but there is none. ‘… Uncle Georgeness. Nappies. Vacancy. I’m not going there Anne. I’ll not let you be Auntie Betty with a decade or more as witness to it.’
He waits for a response and gets the next chorus: ‘G—L—O—R—I—A.’
‘I’m not saying that’s where I’m at. Where we’re at. But it’s a possibility. It’s a fucken possibility. And I’m being forced to confront that possibility. Somewhere in there, there’s a line that I’m not going to bloody well cross.’
She stops moving to the music. ‘Joe, intellectually I agree with you. Possibly. Probably. But the trouble with you is that you are so pig-headed I can imagine you despatching yourself to the sweet hereafter because you fucking well think it might be happening. “Annie’ll cope.” Is that what you tell yourself?’
‘Would you?’
‘Oh Jesus. You have had that conversation with yourself?’
His silence is an affirmation.
‘Oh Patti, take me away from here tonight.’
But when she picks up the remote control it is the mute button she presses, not the volume up. ‘Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not yours. Hey Joe?’
‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Nothing at all. I’m tempted to say “unfortunately” … What d’you think Claire would make of this?’
‘Don’t you dare say anything to her.’
‘Not yet, or not ever?’
‘Not yet. Not until I’m ready.’
‘So you’ve got veto rights over what I talk to my daughter about?’
‘Anne!’ His cry is a mixture of plea and anger.
‘Alright, we’ll leave that one alone for now. I’ll just get angry again.’
‘It wasn’t me who started it.’
Their actions are simultaneous as each holds up a hand, he in apology, her in warning.
‘Snap.’ She shakes her head with a sad, rueful smile, and takes another gulp of her wine.
‘When exactly was it that you did this “benchmarking” test with the neuro woman?’
‘I’d have to check the calendar. It was the day I went up to Dongara. With the ashes.’
The sliding eyes!
‘And when are you booked in for a follow-up? Is it annual?’
There is no answer. She looks at him sharply. ‘Joe? … Is it annual?’
He cannot hold her gaze. ‘It was a private appointment. A one-off. It’s up to me whether I go back.’
She mutters to herself through clenched teeth, ‘Sweet Jesus. Give me strength … and patience.’ Her tone is steely. ‘Unless I’m missing something here, in my understanding of how things work, a benchmark is not much use to anyone or anything unless there’s a follow-up to provide a comparison. Am I right, or am I right?’
‘I refuse to have my life run by medicos. You lose control once they get their hooks in.’
‘Oh my god! Can you hear yourself? You just said yourself it was a private appointment. Make another one. Even if she wants to follow up she can’t without your say so. Anyway, I’d like to see the doctor that can bully you. If she can do that I’d like to meet her—ask her for tips maybe.’
UP TO A POINT
Anne pulls herself to her feet and goes over to open the curtain. She breathes in the serenity of her garden in the moonlight like a scent before she asks, with back turned, ‘Should I take it from the way you’re behaving that you think you’re getting worse?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re scaring me Joe.’
He starts to get out of the rec
liner, but she hears the squeak. ‘No. Stay where you are. I can handle this better standing still and watching my pistachio tree.’ She downs her wine. ‘I’m not going to fight you. I’m not going to obstruct you. I don’t know whether or not I agree with you, but I would never disrespect you. In the end it’s your call how you handle this, but just remember, I’m part of it too. And there’s two things I want.’
‘Two?’
‘To start with.’
‘And they are?’
‘The bloody obvious first. Get advice. Go back to this woman and do the tests again. Stop acting on guesswork. The truth of it is you are an absolute idiot when it comes to your health. You would have let that mole turn into a full-blown skin cancer if I hadn’t hassled you and hassled you to do something about it. What if whatever’s going on with you is something else? Something treatable?’
‘I’m hearing you. What’s number two?’
She turns. ‘Stop shutting me out.’
‘Simple as that hey?’
‘Simple as that.’
He beckons to her again. This time she comes. Not to his lap, but to the sofa, next to him. She puts a hand on his armrest. He lifts it, and places it on top of his own, then uses his other to gently stroke, tracing the lines of the veins on the back of her hand.
‘First thing first?’ he says.
‘Ok.’
‘Getting advice. Agreed. Up to a point.’
‘And what point’s that?’
‘Up to the point of disproof or diagnosis. I’ll do the bloody tests. I’ll let them check out all the alternative possibilities. And I’ll dance with joy if they can show it’s something else. But if there’s nothing left but the awful truth, that’s where I’ll draw the line.’
‘What d’you mean?’
