Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  Maybe the strike hadn’t been fatal. But the look of naked… what? disbelief? dislike? rejection? whatever… had made her physically recoil.

  Even today, Naomi could vividly recall her anguish at that particular change.

  It was one of the things she had loved about him when they’d met, in those early days when, in her ears, the timbre of his voice eclipsed the best of Beethoven, Handel, Schubert, Bach, Mozart and Grieg, all rolled into one. When he became part of her everyday life, his speech continued to hold for her the beauty and eloquence of music. He managed somehow to pack volumes into a change of inflection, a softening of his vowels, a change of speed.

  The gradual but inexorable loss of colour and cadence had been like an audible expression of his slow dying. The monotonous tone, the hoarseness, the short sentences, the frequent pauses to take a breath, to clear saliva, the deliberate exaggerated enunciation; how much more agonising they must have been for him.

  ‘Inside my head there’s the old fluent repartee; my brain is still like a river in spate, surging up to the drainage channels again and again and again, swirling away unreleased because those passageways are blocked, permanently out of commission, littered with dead and dying neurones,’ he’d written.

  And he was living that metaphor.

  She’d heard people make a joke of his impediment to his face; she’d seen people back away thinking he was drunk; she’d caught the look of pity in the eyes of friends. She’d rushed to distract his attention, but she dared not diminish him further by fighting these demons for him. She had to respect his autonomy.

  What hypocrisy!

  Her eyes went reluctantly back to the computer screen. ‘28 June’ the entry said. Had he guessed? Had he known just how far she’d gone in overriding his autonomy?

  She steeled herself to read on.

  29 JUNE—Give me Pharaoh’s flies, frogs and locusts any day rather than the sheer relentlessness of my mother. Getting mad with an Egyptian potentate would be less personally draining than skirting round the sensitivities of one’s sole surviving progenitor.

  She’s taken to calling unannounced during the day when she must know Naomi is out. She brings her apron, for goodness’ sake! And a bucket-load – literally – of cloths and cleaners and tools of the trade. And if it’s not every crevice and whorl of the banisters that she scours, it’s the tops of the doors and pictures, or she empties shelves and cleans underneath everything! I mean to say, who cares?

  I’ve tried rationally and calmly defending my territory, explaining how I need peace and solitude to work, but try telling the Niagara Falls to stream upwards; try commanding snowflakes to crystallise in rhomboidal formations; try coaxing a tigress to leave her cub to the vultures.

  Oh no!

  She ‘won’t disturb me’, I can ‘get on’. Naomi ‘needs support’, she hasn’t got time for ‘all the little extras’ now she’s got me to ‘take care of’.

  And the daytime’s the only time she can come; when Naomi’s out. She doesn’t want her daughter-in-law to feel ‘substandard’. This way she needn’t even know anyone has been… hello!! She can just think that things aren’t getting as dirty as they used to. As if Naomi would even think about the tops of doors, never mind measure the accumulated dust particles! As if she could fail to detect the reek of furniture polish and disinfectant.

  My revered parent might as well be sitting on my desk, obscuring my view of the computer screen, clicking a pen in and out. Ideas, concentration, creative flow, everything evaporates with the sound of her studiously muted germ-removal.

  Most days I grit my teeth, muck around with emails and other pretty mindless activities till she’s gone. Sometimes I slink out of the house to the garden to work there. Occasionally I even force myself to stop and have a coffee with her.

  Today I absolutely needed to be here to finish a piece on Third World debt. With a deadline writ large on my screen as well as behind my eyes, my fluency was already seriously under threat, so I wandered out and suggested a quick drink ‘before you go’.

  The duster twirled more viciously over the cornice in the dining room. By now even the spiders must hide at the sound of that damn bucket. I tried direct appeal, told her about the pressure to produce the goods, the specifics of my work-load. All outwardly very calm, very soothing. Or so I thought anyway.

  ‘I’ll just…’

  ‘No, Mother, you won’t! That’s enough. Thanks but no thanks. I know you mean well, but please – NO MORE CLEANING! I have a living to earn. I have deadlines to meet. And frankly I don’t care a stuff if Miss Havisham herself is hiding in the accumulated filth of a century in this house. I just need to WORK!’

  ‘But Naomi…’

  ‘But Naomi nothing. She’d much rather come home to a civilised husband festooned in cobwebs than a spankingly clean house and a steaming half-wit climbing the walls!’

  Harsh, I know. But…

  Coffee was a strained business. Caramel wafers were rejected with extreme politeness. When she’d gone, in a clattering of metal and high dudgeon, I felt all shades of a villain. Cassandra did her sympathetic best and an hour of fathomless oceanic sound-waves brought me down to picture-rail height, but I was woefully aware of the stilted language Harry would undoubtedly shred if I didn’t inject some linguistic sparkle into the article before submission.

  It was a relief when Naomi came home tired and went to bed as soon as she’d picked at a salad. Later I found most of that in the bin, too late to offer her a modicum of understanding. But my inner peace was restored by the time I joined her, ready to listen to her day. Except that she was fast asleep.

  He hadn’t looked very hard then. The damp pillow, the occasional remnant of a sob, her wakeful tension – nothing had seeped across to him? Maybe then…

  1 JULY—Musings for a future weekly column which are relevant to my diary:

  1. Decisions about life and death are not static things. They may need to be revised. Sometimes even reversed.

  2. I’m acutely aware of the difference a day makes. Yesterday I was perilously close to insanity. Today I’m ruthlessly logical and in control.

  3. Death itself isn’t the enemy. What’s so dreadful about it? Why do people fear it so? To me it would only be dreadful if it happens when I don’t want it to.

  4. Dying painfully – well now, that’s another kettle of fish altogether. But that’s more about pain than about death. And I can perfectly understand why people fear pain. *(For Ideas folder: dying/pain.)

  2 JULY—I get a distinct impression that Naomi is avoiding me. She says it’s nothing to do with my reaction to her comment about my nasal voice on Thursday. Or the rug business. I’ve tried to make amends, get her to open up about what’s eating her, but she just pleads tiredness – physical and emotional, she says.

  I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right. It’s not like her.

  Okay, things may be hectic at work just now; troubling cases and all that. Heck, most of her cases would haunt me! But she’s strong. And generous. She blows her top occasionally but she doesn’t sulk or shut me out. Not usually.

  I hope it’s the truth. I hope it’s not because she’s started seeing me as an invalid, needing protection, enough troubles of my own. She’s been a tower of strength so far; she doesn’t deserve the edge of my frustration or the backlash of my impatience when things are getting me down. Am I turning into a selfish brute? Chronic illness can shrink one’s horizons and dull the sensitivities.

  I’m scratching around for clues here; looking for a way back in.

  If only it had been that simple. Fear made her hands tremble but her brain compelled her to read on.

  4 JULY—Huh! So much for concentrating on Naomi’s needs.

  Cassandra is a stressor I didn’t anticipate. She spent most of Monday mewling pitifully. I held her on my lap while I worked but she just couldn’t seem to get comfortable and she was sick five times. Yesterday she was asleep in her basket almost all day. But it wasn’t that re
assuring silent purr of contentment with life, the universe and her lot in particular. Suffice to say, it was the kind of immobility that had me checking her every few minutes. But even that degree of vigilance detected nothing tangible to indicate she needed more than a break from human interference.

  Naomi’s been just as concerned – her old self in fact. We’ve shared the anxiety.

  Today Cassandra’s all in a heap again so to hang with being labelled a paranoid owner, I’m taking her to the vet. Absence of specific symptoms notwithstanding, I need reassurance even if Cassandra’s just doing what cats do – taking a sabbatical from feline activity. Scorn from the animal doctors has to be less stultifying than this level of anxiety. Good grief! If I’m like this with a cat, good thing I haven’t had kids!

  Evening Why do we set ourselves up for heartache? – especially the unnecessary kind, against our better judgment.

  I’m mad at myself for falling into this trap. I was never an animal lover. Ever. And there’s enough tragedy in the world of homo sapiens, without taking on the cares of other species.

  What kind of a fool is seduced by the wiles of a mangy stray moggy in the first place? And even if simple compassion spurs him into saving the creature from starvation, what on earth would possess him to let it creep into his affections? Only an idiot.

  Cassandra has certainly made a fool out of me! I can’t believe how profoundly I’m affected by this.

  6 JULY—I’m struggling to get the pictures out of my head. Writing about it might help to resolve things.

  There was nothing they could do. It was too advanced. Best just to let her slip away peacefully. It would be a kindness. She wouldn’t know a thing. We’ve heard it a thousand times: novels, soaps, films, even documentaries – everybody knows the lines. And any sane person would add, It’s only a cat! But it isn’t. It’s Cassandra.

  They didn’t muck about. The vet was drawing up the injection before I had finished nodding agreement. I held her while they did the deed, I cuddled her before they took her away – all the things you’re supposed to do to help you let go.

  Still, putting that warm but lifeless body into the nurse’s arms wrenched something at the core of my being. Walking away from the surgery felt like some giant betrayal.

  There was no choice. Yet, in spite of knowing that the vet would have thought me cruel if I’d wanted Cassandra to linger, I still feel guilty.

  Imagine if that had been my child. Or my mother. Or, heaven forbid, Naomi. Incurably ill. Dying. In pain. The Curtises, the Devlins, the mighty Law Lords – they’d all pass judgment.

  Is this what lies ahead for Naomi?

  Cassandra couldn’t tell me if she’d choose a few more days. I, with no veterinary knowledge, can decide on her behalf. On the vet’s say-so it’s done. No reference to any higher authority. Wham – bang. See, diagnose, prognosticate, kill. All done in minutes. Start to finish. End of story. Next, please.

  I don’t believe he’ll even remember Cassandra by the time he gets home to his cottage pie and two veg.

  If it were my life on the line though…? My ‘vets’ just aren’t allowed to help me on my way, not even if it’s my ‘considered and sustained’ wish. Or at least, they can’t give me that merciful instant oblivion Cassandra was blessed with.

  Crazy, man!

  Okay, if they think my outlook is hopeless they can starve me to death. They can stand on one side and watch me struggle for breath and drown in my own secretions, and not be compelled to leap in with delaying tactics. But they can’t say, ‘Let’s cut out the nasty bit and help him to go with dignity.’

  Ye gods! Humanity, compassion, common sense, where art thou?

  So much for therapy in writing. The sight of those glazed eyes, the feel of that heartbeat stopping, are as vivid and painful as they were at 6PM yesterday.

  The price of emotional involvement. The cost of caring.

  Tears dripped onto the desk and Naomi wiped her sleeve roughly across her eyes.

  7 JULY—Two thoughts out of this misery.

  Maybe my mother is wiser than I thought. Maybe she’s already living with my ‘afterwards’. What does it do to a parent seeing their own child facing such a future, powerless to do anything to stop the ravages of the disease? She is contemplating losing the very being she’s loved so unconditionally for a lifetime. It’s the end of every hope and dream and promise wrapped up in that love since conception. She knows she must stand at my grave and weep. I mustn’t lose sight of her nightmare.

  Death is a great context against which to balance life’s problems. All this business with Cassandra has drawn Naomi and me closer again. We need each other. What price anti-slip measures, what does a nasal voice count, against sudden extinction?

  If he had only known how closely his own thoughts reflected her agonising! Had he discovered her secret, he could not have penned such words.

  19 JULY—Extinction? I very nearly got myself extinguished a week ago last Monday.

  There I was, standing minding my own business, waiting for the number 37 bus, when out of nowhere there’s a flash of gleaming metal and next minute I, together with half the bus shelter, am pinned up against Greggs the Bakers’ window, sandwiched between a few tons of BMW and a doubly reinforced plate glass window.

  True to tradition there was a moment of unearthly quiet and then all hell broke loose: people screaming, doors slamming, metal creaking, voices arching across each other, yelling, ‘Keep yer ’ead still, son!’ ‘Call an ambulance.’ ‘We need a fire engine. Has anybody called the Fire Brigade?’ Blankets were handed across the road as if on a human chain. Strangers huddled in groups at a distance as if I were contagious. Newcomers stared, awed expletives peppering the gaps between the shouting.

  All I could see of the BMW driver was one elbow, white shirt-sleeve curiously uncreased. Some executive type was leaning in the window talking so I presumed he was still alive, but there was no movement from the elbow. From where I stood it was all one-sided.

  I discovered first-hand that paramedics really do ask banal questions – just like they do in Casualty:

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘What’s your name, mate?’

  ‘You’re going to be all right, Adam.’

  (Does anybody believe they have the power of second sight any more?)

  ‘Just keep perfectly still.’

  ‘We’ll soon have you out of here.’

  That’s a medical ‘soon’ then.

  ‘Can you feel this?’

  ‘Tell me where it hurts.’

  Easier to say where it didn’t hurt. And ‘hurt’ seems too bland a word for what you feel when crushed from the chest down to the shins.

  Holding still while the fire crew eased the tangled metal away from me, I felt curiously disembodied. I had this vivid picture of being left in a thousand tiny shards that would crumble to the ground once the support was removed. But somehow the ambulance men held me inside my skin, fastened me into a full body splint, swung me in unison from upright to horizontal and away we went, sirens clearing the street before us like royal outriders.

  A couple of days of being X-rayed from every angle, my reflexes tortured, the indignities of ‘bedrest’ *(For Ideas folder: euphemisms), at the mercy equally of burnt-out strangers in uniforms inured to the routines, and eager friends with a macabre thirst for the ghoulish, and I was begging to escape to the sanctuary we call home. Truth to tell, the taste of utter dependence was taking away my appetite for the MND future.

  Messers Gordon JK Penstemon, Casualty Consultant, and OL Herbert, Consultant, Orthopaedic Department, (if they were the rightful owners of their badges), conferred like wise old wizards and decided, since I was obviously miraculously protected and, in spite of the combined efforts of fate and Malcolm Inches, one-time driver of the aforementioned BMW, somehow without major injury, I might as well show off my psychedelic bruises without cost to the NHS rather than drain depleted resources any further. No doubt the fact that I was a po
tentially disgruntled journalist lent power to their readiness to remove me from harm’s way.

  Since that misguided (from my side) decision, the greener-grass phenomenon has not infrequently made me long for that blessed bell signalling the eviction of the loved and the unwanted. Naomi looks paler and more anxious than pre-Cassandra’s demise. My mother has perfected the art of patting bedclothes, interrupting sleep and finding every nerve-jangling activity to ensure my teeth remain locked into grit mode.

  It occurs to me that Malcolm Inches might have done me a favour if he’d been more thorough. In one merciful and spectacular finale he could have swept me into the hereafter and taken all the forthcoming decisions completely out of my hands. Maybe an Intercity train’s the answer after all.

  I shared something of that regret with Dr Curtis when he called. He gave a half smile, said, ‘I think that’s just the medication talking’, and didn’t stay long. I sensed he was in no mood for anything deep and meaningful.

  I know I should be grateful. It’s not every man who has two women fighting for a slice of the action. Naomi’s rights were, I thought, undisputed. My mother begs to differ.

  When – if – I get too much for Naomi to manage, would it be better to have some impersonal ‘official’ assistance paid for by the hour to do the job and stay out of our emotions; or would it be easier to accept the personal invasion from the emotionally beholden? On balance I’d say we’d do well to find someone paid to carry out the tasks Naomi assigns, to Naomi’s standard; someone who’ll make no effort to compete with her; someone whom she has the capacity to get rid of if things don’t work out; someone whom she can castigate freely without fear of infringing my sensibilities.

  If I go that distance.

  21 JULY—Two weeks on from the accident and I’m still pretty stiff. Because of the crash, Curtis thought it would be wise to get my carcass overhauled by the big white chief, so my appointment’s been brought forward a month. By next Monday I should be mobile enough for that visit but I’ve had to postpone a tango with Véronique and our holiday in the Channel Islands.