Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  So, what have I learned?

  DROWNING

  Plus: it’s nearly impossible to tell whether death by drowning was an accident or suicide – or murder! NB. Naomi needs a cast iron alibi.

  Minus: Can be a pretty slow, agonising kind of death. People tend to struggle. Would I have the courage and resolve to see it through?

  Later I got sidetracked by this marvellous account of inexplicable or so-called voodoo deaths. Apparently healthy men, convinced that they were the victims of evil sorcery, and totally certain that the time for their death had come, simply lay down and died! No cause for death found. Sounds ideal!

  And in other cases, perfectly healthy people had unexplained experiences during the night, characterised by agonising groans and writhing, and then were found dead in the morning. Again, no cause of death found at autopsy. They’re known as ‘nightmare deaths’. I’m not so keen on the writhing in agony – even the fantasy variety! And it doesn’t tell you how you procure one of these.

  Okay, enough procrastination. What other options do I have?

  HANGING

  Minus: Requires dexterity – probably beyond me. Don’t want Naomi’s last memory to be of eyes popping and face all distorted and blue.

  ACCIDENT

  Plus: Always been a front-runner.

  Minus: ??Beyond my capacity. Risk of waking up as strawberry jam with it all still to do. Beastly experience for any driver if go for traffic accident.

  OVERDOSE

  Plus: Easy. Clean.

  Minus: Risk of vomit, wrong dose, unusually high tolerance level.

  POLY BAG

  Minus: Probably beyond my strength. Don’t want Naomi to remember me like that.

  SHOOTING

  Plus: Clean and quick – for victim.

  Minus: Don’t have a gun. Maybe not strong enough or accurate enough.

  SLASHED WRISTS

  Minus: Messy. Could be painful and slow.

  GASSING

  Minus: No gas in the house. Knowledge of car mechanics unreliable.

  All of the above, minuses:

  1. Guilt. (?Consult man of the cloth who doesn’t know me. Rev. Tom Blackwell maybe?)

  2. Aftermath for Naomi and my mother.

  3. ??Determination.

  I have a vague memory of a programme about young people who harmed themselves or committed suicide. What struck me was their calm approach to the deed. Life was a kind of hell, one of the teenagers said, she just wanted to find a more peaceful place. And some of them tried everything – including setting themselves on fire. Imagine! Desperation of a different dimension.

  Looking at this list I have a nasty suspicion I’m too much of a coward. I can’t see myself even deliberately nicking my skin. Or am I just too much in love with life?

  What did the Lieutenant Colonel do, I wonder? If anything.

  24 DECEMBER—It was my job today to decorate the house, already scrubbed to within an inch of its life by my mother. The artistic touches have always been my domain. This year, however, Joel was dispatched to collect cones and holly – a big concession. I love tramping in the cold air, smelling the pines, searching for exactly the right fruits of the forest to create a different effect each year. It’s all part of the anticipation, the preparation, for the big day.

  In spite of the distraction Paige offered, Joel managed to bring back a creditable haul and I left them to weave the greenery and fairy lights through the banisters while I got on in the main rooms. Zimmers and stairs aren’t compatible!

  It took an unbelievably long time and my clumsiness was starting to rile me, when footsteps bounded down the staircase and the door was suddenly flung open. I was just on the point of threading loops of dark green velvet ribbon into the banks of holly on the mantelpiece without displacing strategically positioned crimson candles.

  ‘I say, Adam.’

  I turned too quickly, lost my balance, and crashed to the floor in a shower of Christmas baubles, berries and wax. One of my favourite dark red frosted balls splintered into fragments in the fireplace beside me. Joel hauled me up with more goodwill than skill, profusely apologetic. I was physically unharmed but all my Christmas spirit evaporated as Naomi swept up the mess. Joel took instructions on how to finish off decorating the mantelpiece and Paige glanced uncertainly from one of us to the other as she returned to festooning the banisters alone.

  Memories of that day were etched on Naomi’s own mind.

  Steering a course through Adam’s sensitivities and the pressure of having to cater for eleven on Christmas Day had been taxing from the outset. Joel’s horror at causing the accident, her own anxiety, and Adam’s palpable frustration had conspired to dampen everyone’s spirits.

  He’d looked so strained, it was a relief when Adam had cried off from attending the Watchnight service to conserve his energy for the following day and gone into his study ‘to write’. She’d made her excuses too, unwilling to leave him alone. She’d brought him mulled wine, salted cashew nuts, and an affectionate hug. Strange. He must have been writing this very account of his accident. He’d smiled his thanks but she knew from his absent look that he needed to be alone.

  She’d been glad to escape. The thought pierced her soul. Why had she not clung to every second? But it had been so hard to stop her mind dwelling on next Christmas. Her pact with Joel had helped: she would keep her side of their bargain. She would. But the struggle had been monumental.

  28 DECEMBER—I owe Naomi and Joel a debt I can never repay. Thanks to them this has been a much better Christmas than I ever anticipated.

  Naomi’s mother and her sister as well as my mother contributed to the food – it must have been a major military exercise for Naomi to plan but it worked brilliantly. All four women shared the responsibilities at the table as well as behind the scenes, and since they’re all good cooks we had a veritable feast. I’m staggered at Naomi’s acceptance of their help. She always used to pride herself on doing everything independently, but from where I sat, they were all more relaxed because of their greater involvement. If there were tensions in the kitchen, they didn’t spill over into the dining room.

  Anabelle and Courtney kept things light with their excitement and artless chatter. Naomi had made little packages to keep them amused between courses and the whole company entered into the fun of unwrapping them, exclaiming over the tiny music boxes, the glow-in-the-dark pens, the noisy party poppers. It didn’t take long to turn the elegant table into a bombsite of streamers and discarded paper. Their grandfather contributed to the mess by transforming napkins into ghosts and aliens. But the mounting debris symbolised the collapse of artificial restraint. We were once again a normal family.

  Normal? Yes, it felt normal.

  For us. Now.

  I made no pretence at being the active host. Joel assumed the role without a word from me. And his crazy banter effectively took the sting out of his takeover bid. I think I may have underestimated my kid brother. Paige fitted in perfectly and I could see even my mother was impressed.

  Present-time has sometimes been tricky in the past, with money spent on unwelcome choices, but this year Naomi and I had told everyone in the immediate family we didn’t want gifts; contributions instead to the humanitarian crisis in the Sudan. It saved the family thinking, What do you give to a man who’ll be dead by this time next year? It circumvented emotional moments. And the adults all took their cue from us and requested something similar for themselves. It was Naomi’s idea that we exchange inexpensive joke gifts – no more than two pounds per person. I’d had a lot of fun searching through mail-order catalogues for the right thing for each of them. As a result, exchanging gifts was a riot of laughter. Just what we needed.

  Highly excited children can be a strain for the older generation. Naomi, Joel and Paige had designed a competition for them to fill in the post-prandial slot. Each assisted by two adults, they had a list of items to find in the garden. The resultant collection of assorted feathers, leaves, handprints, petals,
etc had all to be used to create something for the O’Neill Gallery of Modern Art. I was to be the judge and as such I was safely enthroned in a large, decorated chair in the bay window overlooking the back garden, to ensure there was no cheating.

  The banishment of the girls from the house was designed to give their elders a chance to nap. In the event, they crowded around me, fully engaged with the hilarity outside, and when it came to the judging I had no shortage of advice.

  Sally and Matthew provided a mini firework display once it grew dark and again the older guests could watch from the comfort of their chairs while the younger element huddled together outside in a steam of exhaled breath, their screams of delight muffled to a bearable level. My presence in the wrong generation was hidden behind my duties as nominal host.

  A game of musical statues brought everyone together inside again and once more I was elected to watch for unwary movements when the music stopped. Joel contrived to be eliminated first and spent his time outside the competition, contorting his body into absurd positions to tempt the statues out of their own immobility.

  It was with genuine regret that we said our farewells at 10 that night. For a last Christmas, it had been one of the best. I wished I could have expressed my gratitude to these special people who had masterminded each step to perfection, but any kind of speech would have undone all their efforts to avoid sadness or comparisons. Besides I could not have got through it myself.

  Thank you cards will have to suffice. Tomorrow.

  It had been good. Good for her too. She’d been so impressed by Joel. Early in December he’d rung her, fearlessly addressing the issue of this being Adam’s last Christmas. Hearing her distress, he’d quietly taken charge and devised a plan to make it a day of fun and enjoyment, even going to the trouble of checking out his ideas with various experts in MND to ensure he wasn’t doing more harm than good.

  ‘Thank you so much, Joel. What would I do without you?’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. Look what you’re doing for my brother, day in, day out.’

  ‘But it helps enormously, knowing you’re there when I need you.’

  ‘Remember then: it’s a pact. No sentimentality; bags of hilarity. If you concentrate on the kitchen-side, I’ll do the old MC bit. And if either of us smells a difficult moment coming up, it’s a competition to see who can raise a laugh faster. Bet you a tenner I win!’

  ‘I’d bet you a tenner you’d win too!’

  ‘Spoilsport! Where’s your competitive edge?’

  In the event, the sheer busyness of the carefully choreographed day had effectively eliminated those dreaded moments when thoughts were in danger of slipping their leash. Adam had indeed sent them both cards – with extravagant bouquets. It was comforting to know that, though he’d been aware of their tactics, he’d been grateful rather than resentful.

  She re-read his diary entry. Yes, Joel should see this section.

  29 DECEMBER—I know I’m falling behind with my diary during these action-packed days. It’s frustrating, because I’m conscious that my memory for the detail is not as accurate two days later, but nowadays I just can’t deal with the battle of the day and then write all evening.

  Boxing Day was in danger of being an anti-climax. We used to go for a long walk in the countryside to counteract the excesses of the 25th, but for obvious reasons that wasn’t on the cards this year. Only Joel and Paige were left and I didn’t want to limit their activities, so it was in my mind to pretend that I desperately needed to get the next instalment of my book down before I forgot what had come to me during the night, leaving them free to go out together or with Naomi.

  But Joel had an ace up his sleeve. Soon after our embarrassingly late breakfast, the door of the sitting room suddenly flew open and my brother sprang in with a ‘Dunn-de-da-da-daaaaaaaaaaaa!’ and a state-of- the-art wheelchair. In the nick of time I grabbed the bar on my zimmer and stopped myself from falling sideways.

  ‘Whoops! Sorry bro!’

  We must have presented a comical picture; me stooping low over my frame, Joel complete with red wig, white coat and stethoscope gripping me round the waist and propelling me back towards my chair. I sank into it gratefully, glad there were no other witnesses to my weakness.

  ‘What on earth are you up to this time?’ I asked him, eying his clothing with some alarm.

  ‘Apart from trying to destabilise you, you mean?’

  ‘Apart from that, yes.’

  ‘Ahhaaaa. Come in, handmaidens!’

  I have to admit Paige and Naomi made comely figures dressed as Barbara-Windsor-type nurses, although under normal circumstances I would be the first to decry the stereotyping of professional women. Naomi advanced threateningly with a giant syringe. I cowered into my seat. Giggling helplessly Paige flourished a bedpan and a floating roll of toilet paper. I put up my hands to ward her off and whimpered piteously.

  ‘Brilliant. We’ll win hands-down,’ Joel crowed.

  ‘Win? Win what?’ I demanded, instantly all suspicion.

  ‘The Boxing Day race.’

  ‘You aren’t serious…’

  ‘Indeed I am. Worthy cause. No excuses. Four adults with nothing better to do. We’ll be there.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. Slow down. I need more information.’

  Nothing I could offer would dissuade Joel from his chosen path. By 1.55PM we were in that line-up waiting for the starter gun, the girls shivering in their skimpy dresses, me wedged into that wheelchair, sweltering, between them.

  Joel had decreed that I should be permitted to wear three layers of woollies under the ancient but enormous stripy pyjamas he’d obtained from some second-hand shop. (‘They’ve been washed, Mr Fusspot!’ he assured me before I would even touch them.) But I still felt incredibly vulnerable perched in an unfamiliar form of locomotion with him at the controls, and horribly conspicuous surrounded by his sound effects: blaring horn, revving engine, squealing brakes. Even more astonishingly, Naomi and Paige showed no vestige of embarrassment as my fawning attendants, and there must be many a household who will drool over their charms if the flashing cameras were indicative of anything.

  In a trial run down our drive I had been adamant on one point; I must be strapped in in some way if Joel was indeed bent on winning. Having anticipated some qualms on my part, he obligingly produced a hefty belt hung about with huge padlocks that meant I’d probably have to be sawn out of the blessed contraption in the event of an accident.

  The competition looked formidable. Beds, wheelbarrows, trikes, prams – anything with wheels was permissible. There was even a cardboard car placed over two skateboards tied together. The costumes were sufficiently inventive and comical that I had actually forgotten my imminent danger when the starter struck up, ‘On your marks, get set…’

  It’s an annual event, in aid of a charity – this year, childhood leukaemia. We’ve watched it from the sidelines on previous occasions, we’ve financially supported it every year, but this was our first time as participants.

  I don’t recall ever being so petrified. Joel’s ‘It’ll be a laugh,’ only applied to himself. I spent every second of that reckless ride praying. Thanks to the belt (by now festooned with flashing fairy lights!) and my white-knuckle grip, I managed to remain physically in the chair but Joel gave no concessions to bumps or potholes or pavement edges. He had one goal in mind: winning! My disability was forgotten. Since I did, miraculously, survive, I lived to be grateful that he could forget it for that brief crazy time.

  He insisted on wheeling me up to the improvised dais to collect second prize. I was mortified to find, when the local paper came out yesterday, that I’d had a soppy grin on my face. I can only continue to pray that Harry et al are a) above looking at the local rag or b) don’t recognise me behind that gruesome wig, red nose and white face-paint.

  What happened next took me by storm, but I am so exhausted by these past few days that I can’t record it tonight.

  30 DECEMBER—Joel’s enthusiasm and
drive got me through the rest of that day but by 7 I was aching all over. Just holding my head up required a monumental effort. In the end, there was nothing for it but to concede defeat. Joel joked his way through manoeuvring me into the bedroom but Naomi was pretty subdued getting me undressed and into bed.

  It’s a mercy that Joel was still here to lift her into a brighter mood again afterwards; I hate to be putting a dampener on her life. I told her twice I’d be fine after a good night’s sleep. And I exaggerated the terror of that wheelchair ride to excuse my present state, putting all the blame at Joel’s door. Unfair I know, but the least of all evils.

  It was true, Adam had belittled the consequences but the gritted teeth, the tension around his eyes, the rigidity of his legs, his dead-weight, had told another story. Joel had been devastated, blaming himself. She reassured him, it had been exactly what Adam needed: a glorious few hours of normality, no concessions. To her chagrin, as she spoke, her composure crumpled and for the first time they clung to each other, appalled by the reality of what was happening to Adam. The bleakness obliterated any remaining pretence and together they faced what lay ahead and planned a strategy.

  But how had Adam perceived it?

  Joel really is incorrigible. A bright beacon in this gathering storm. He refuses to let this thing defeat us. And he’s so completely unsentimental about it. Makes a joke about even the beastliest things.

  What a tonic!

  Naomi stopped reading again. Joel had been incredible. Maybe he deserved even greater credit than she’d given him. It had given her a warm glow to see the brothers together. Joel could take liberties not available to her. And his new-found maturity had made her see him in a completely different light.

  She sat for a long time, just staring at the screen.

  The good night’s sleep didn’t materialise, thanks in no small measure to the ghastly jolting, I suspect, and the strain of holding myself in that chair, but I kidded on that I was a new man next morning. And as long as I sat in the high-backed seat and kept my head supported I could just about concentrate on the conversation.