Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  ‘I’m fine but… what’s happening? Why did Dr Wickham…? Is Adam…?’

  ‘Naomi, I want you to sit down and listen carefully. I have something to tell you.’

  She obeyed automatically.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Naomi, this isn’t going to be easy for you to hear but you have to know about Adam’s wishes. Otherwise we could get this whole thing horribly wrong.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Naomi? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was a mere whisper.

  ‘You know that Adam’s been talking to me? About his MND; how he feels.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he’s also talked about not wanting to be a burden on you.’

  There was nothing she could say.

  His voice was suddenly softened.

  ‘Did you know that he’s been looking into ways of ending his life? He wants to spare you both the worst effects of this illness.’

  When she still didn’t reply, he said her name again, it seemed to come from a very great distance.

  ‘Naomi? Did you know he was thinking along those lines?’

  ‘He mentioned… it… once or twice. I thought…’

  ‘He’s been thinking about it seriously, especially since things started to get so much worse. And I rather suspect – I don’t know for sure – but he might have meant this to happen.’

  ‘You mean… now…?’

  ‘Possibly. I think he might have engineered this accident.’

  The enormity of the idea temporarily robbed her of the power of speech.

  ‘And if that was the case, I was just thinking… well, he wouldn’t want you to pull out all the stops now. Would he?’

  She was silent.

  ‘How would you feel about just letting things take their natural course? Dr Wickham suspects Adam took something – extra medication, something different, maybe. Something to make him lose consciousness. And the taxi driver told him that Adam insisted on being taken up to some ledge or other. Perhaps he wanted to make sure… Look, I know this is hard for you to think about, but it makes sense. Before you left he gave me his book – in case he didn’t come back, he said. He was pretty fed up with me because I wouldn’t just promise to give him something, do it for him, when the time was right. And I’m wondering if, perhaps, he felt the time was now.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything to me…’

  ‘He wanted to spare you. He didn’t want you to feel responsible.’

  ‘But now… you want me to…’

  ‘No, Naomi. No. Listen carefully. I’m not asking you to do anything. Let Dr Wickham take the decisions. He’s prepared to sit tight and watch Adam. If it looks as if he’ll just sleep away… would that be such a bad thing?’

  She couldn’t answer; she was too numb.

  ‘On the other hand, if he wakes up from this, then I think we must just get him back to Scotland. Either way, Dr Wickham will do what’s necessary now. He tells me he speaks fluent Portuguese and he knows the law and how things work over there. He understands the situation. I’ve filled him in on Adam’s wishes.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be coming home tomorrow,’ Naomi croaked.

  ‘I know. But Dr Wickham will get your tickets changed if necessary. Whatever. He sounds very on the ball to me. Or I could come out.’

  ‘No! Please. There’s no need… If Dr Wickham doesn’t mind…’

  ‘He volunteered to look after things. But what about you? Are you all right with sitting tight, seeing how things pan out?’

  ‘D’you think… Adam’s going to…?’

  ‘I don’t know. Dr Wickham thinks twelve hours or so will decide it – one way or the other. Adam’s showing the classic signs of an overdose.’

  ‘Twelve hours…’

  Her voice petered out.

  ‘Naomi, listen. Just think of it from Adam’s point of view. What would we be bringing him back to?’

  ‘He should have talked to me…’

  ‘Like you talked to him about the baby?’ The words were spoken gently, no hint of criticism, but they cut deep.

  ‘You were both only trying to save each other more hurt. Try not to judge him too harshly. Just be there for him. He loves you very much.’

  Through her tears she managed to choke out her thanks and to hear his assurances that he’d be there, she could ring any time, day or night. Keep him posted.

  For a long moment she sat staring bleakly at her inert husband.

  ‘Ms O’Neill?’ The words came from miles away. ‘Ma’am? Are you okay?’

  ‘Just give me a minute... please.’

  Throughout the next six hours, Madison Wickham listened, explained and encouraged, and Naomi drew comfort from his quiet assurance and practical skills. In between their subdued conversations, she assisted him in washing and changing and turning Adam.

  She must have dosed off during the early hours of the morning because she awoke to a persistent voice.

  ‘Ma’am. Ms O’Neill. Wake up.’

  Even to her untrained eye there was a change. Adam’s eyes remained closed but his head occasionally jerked to one side, and his breathing was harsh.

  She shot a glance at Dr Wickham.

  ‘I think he’s waking up,’ he said. ‘I guess you need to prepare for that.’

  How does one prepare to welcome someone back from death at his own hand? But when Adam eventually struggled through his medicated fog to consciousness, instinct took over. She held his hand, hushing any attempt at speech, assuring him over and over again of her love. He turned from her with vague, unfocused eyes. Not until he was more fully aware of his surroundings did Dr Wickham attempt any further physical examination. There were no obvious breakages although the bruising was by now lurid and Adam winced whenever his arms were moved.

  ‘Ma’am, would you mind leaving us for a while? Go get a coffee maybe?’

  Her eyes went to Adam. Surely… he would protest… he’d want her to stay.

  He did not.

  She dragged herself from the room.

  Unable to bear the claustrophobic hotel a moment longer, she let herself out into the garden. What had yesterday been part of a magical holiday was today sinister. Pale light cast a ghostly glow on the shapes of trees, the furled parasols above the tables, the stone pillars – all immobile, as if listening for the sound of her thoughts.

  What was Adam telling this stranger? Why had the doctor requested to be left alone with his unregistered patient? What if Adam was still determined to end his life? What if he asked Madison Wickham to assist him? What was the legal position in America? What moral values did this particular American hold? What if… at this very moment…

  She burst back into the room with such speed that the door banged loudly in the sleeping hotel.

  Dr Wickham looked up with a frown. Adam dragged his heavy gaze round to where she stood, white-faced and shaking.

  ‘Adam, please! Don’t do it. Please, please, please, don’t.’

  In slow motion he held out a hand to her. In an instant she was on her knees beside the bed, clutching his hand to her cheek.

  ‘I know… I know you want to go… but please, please, not yet. Not like this. Not here. Not now. Please. I’ll help you. I will. When it’s time. Please… let’s go home… first.’

  ‘I’m… sorry,’ he whispered hoarsely. It was clearly a struggle for him even to hold his eyes open.

  ‘Ms O’Neill, ma’am, I realise this has been a terrible shock for you. But your husband is exhausted. I think I’ve established his wishes and we can safely let him sleep for the next few hours.’

  ‘What have you given him? Oh, what have you done?’ Naomi wailed.

  ‘No, I assure you, I haven’t given him anything. He’s just drowsy from the medication he’s already taken. The best thing for him now is just to sleep it off.’

  A strange sense of detachment clung to Naomi on the journey home.

  Madis
on Wickham had insisted on accompanying them to the airport in Funchal. Hugo Curtis was waiting at the front of the queue in Edinburgh to take Adam’s chair, while she reclaimed their baggage. He gave Adam a thorough check-over as soon as they reached home.

  What Adam made of all this, she had no means of knowing. Throughout the transfers and the flights he had dozed. All her questions must wait.

  ***

  It was a full week before Naomi could bring herself to return to his computer.

  Where would he have recorded it? Would he have committed it to the written word at all? The cursor tracked down through the filenames.

  Ahhh… This might be it… Filename: ‘Why? Why not.’

  She clicked the mouse with a trembling finger.

  26 APRIL—I think it was Winston Graham who wrote: ‘I sometimes think that the most threadbare things in the world are yesterday’s smart ideas…’

  Why? Why? Why?

  Timing, wherewithal, plan; it was all there. Worked out. It seemed every inch a ‘smart idea’. After five unforgettable days in that majestic scenery. Solitude. A clean break. Perfect.

  But I hadn’t bargained for the intensity of my own enjoyment of life. Or for the altruism of a peasant.

  Failure is a matter of split-second timing, it seems. I need to unravel this slowly, learn from my mistakes.

  I was feeling good – a day to myself, and I was ready – just – when the driver arrived. Carlos, the receptionist called him. I used my map to show him the spot, cursing my shaking finger, but he seemed to understand and we were soon hurtling through the streets, me slung from side to side in the back thinking that any second now he was going to spare me the trouble of masterminding my own end.

  The exact spot was easy to see from the road but it took a hefty bribe to get him to push me up to that ledge. He jabbered away and gesticulated expansively, but I just pointed to my notepad and my book, until he got the message that this was where I wanted to be.

  Once the sound of his engine had died in the valley I sat for a long time savouring the sheer majesty and serenity all around me. Wonderful. A sense of eternity. The occasional lizard slithered in the leaves as it baked in the sun. A hawk swooped and hovered overhead. The ocean lulled me.

  Then suddenly, vivid memories of almost twenty years ago. All that climbing, all that energy, all those years stretching ahead, full of promise. And now? Look at me! A dependent cripple with just months to go. I felt physically sick. I stared down at my useless legs, that damned chair. The fantastic panorama vanished. Everything else was reduced to shadow.

  Swallowing the pills was harder than I anticipated. It takes a lot of coordination to open bottles, pick up a water-bottle, get my hand to my mouth, swallow – repeatedly, without choking.

  Before the drowsiness hit I drank in the splendour all around me. I felt this huge urge to imprint something good on my mind, the peace as well as the sheer awesomeness of it all. First mistake: delaying.

  From my vantage point I had a clear view of the road winding tortuously along both sides of the volcanic slope. I calculated there would be a good six minutes before a car rounding the corner now would pass me from either direction: time enough. Far below, the ocean rushed headlong into the narrow cove, out again, in, out, beckoning me. Only a precipitous bank, half-hidden boulders and jagged promontories between me and its embrace. Perfect.

  I lingered.

  Second mistake.

  Quite where the workman came from I couldn’t see; one minute I was entirely alone, next minute there he was running down the road, shouting, leaping up the path, wrenching me back from my escape into oblivion. How he managed to get me and my chair down from that ledge without sending us both into the ocean I shall never know, but manage he did. And despite all my protestations and entreaties, he dragged me all the way to the road, parked me on the safe side, and stomped back off to his vines, shaking his head and muttering.

  Lethargy had already started to steal my senses and it was a monumental struggle to release the brake on my chair. Desperation drove me. Somehow I managed to throw myself against the back and destabilise it. By the time I eventually felt the wheels beginning to turn, there was no time to choose my direction, only a sense of relief. Third mistake.

  I felt my body leave the chair. But instead of a free fall through space, there were sharp spikes piercing my skin and next moment I was slithering into humid vegetation and unconsciousness.

  Naomi stared at what he had written. With absolute clarity she heard Adam’s voice – perfect diction, young and carefree: ‘It’s the Uncertainty Principle: the act of observing alters the reality of what is being observed.’

  How true.

  I’m not really sure how long it took for the last vestiges of the drugs to leave me. Through a haze, I heard a jumble of sounds. American drawl, Naomi’s soft Scots, Portuguese babble, American Portuguese, international weeping, American English. A bewildering polyglot… I sank back into oblivion gratefully.

  I couldn’t work out why Hugo Curtis was at the airport, but I felt reassured by his familiarity.

  It was Sunday evening, I think, or maybe it was Monday, before I fully registered what had happened. The sense of failure was colossal. It was all still to do.

  A week later, and I’m still reeling. I know I need to explain to Naomi; I just can’t bring myself to start. Someone must have instructed her not to ask; it’s the only explanation for her silence. At least my mother isn’t here to harangue me! It wouldn’t matter who told her to wait.

  But he didn’t get the chance to explain. Not then.

  She’d made the chicken soup herself, packing in the nutrients, straining it, letting it cool, decanting it into a cup. She tried to joke; chicken soup for the soul. He didn’t respond. Fair enough, he had to concentrate on the serious business of swallowing.

  Instinct made her ring Curtis first. Then 999. The GP was quicker. Choking’s always a hazard, he reminded her. She knew that. But…

  ‘Was it… the soup?’

  ‘No.’ Unqualified. ‘Anything can trigger it. Even water.’

  ‘So… it wasn’t the soup?’

  ‘No. It definitely wasn’t the soup.’

  Behind the oxygen mask Adam’s eyes looked frightened. What did he fear? Choking to death? Being saved from death?

  ‘Don’t try to talk. Just breathe deeply,’ Curtis said.

  She rang Joel from the hospital. Until he came she was completely alone with the weight of this responsibility. She had rung the doctor. She had called the ambulance. She was tacitly asking the combined skills of the hospital experts to be employed to save Adam. Instinctively. Would he ever forgive her?

  Joel had driven up without a break, straight to the hospital. Seeing his tall figure striding across the car park, Naomi fled from Adam’s room and ran to meet him.

  He gathered her close and she burst into tears.

  30 APRIL—They let me out today. Ostensibly no electronic tag, no minder on suicide watch, but I sense the vigilance on all sides.

  It’s a relief to have access to my therapist – my computer – again. I am bereft without that outlet.

  The three days in hospital seemed more like thirty. Joel and Naomi spent hours at my bedside. Not a word about my suicide attempt escaped them. Trivial news, mindless chatter, no hint of the biggest thing in all our minds. And endless vigilance.

  No one could get it right. I resented the team responsible for my medical treatment for not addressing my mental state. I resented the psychiatric consultant for not appreciating my physical frailty. But most of all, I resented their combined relegation of my autonomous right to decide.

  One logical act and suddenly my wishes are ruled inadmissible in court. I am deemed mentally incompetent. The balance of my mind being disturbed (now beyond reasonable doubt), I am no longer even consulted as to my own perceived best interests. Naomi has become my proxy. Just what distortions are they filling her head with?

  The more isolated I felt the mor
e I scratched around for support. Bizarrely I felt a tremendous and frequent urge to present this diary as my proof. Incontrovertible… or was it? Would it too be consigned to the realm of inadmissible evidence, its authenticity and its competence questionable?

  The medical retinue continued to huddle on the far side of my room, muttering just out of earshot, avoiding eye contact, beckoning silently to Naomi to accompany them outside.

  The psychiatrist, Morton van de Veere, taxed my resolve most. Who asked him to get involved? I was taken into hospital simply because a quantity of food temporarily obstructed my trachea, threatening the oxygenation of my blood. It wasn’t deliberate. Even a desperate man wouldn’t seek to choke himself to death on chicken soup! It was scary having an expert probe my mind. Unnerving to think that in the space of forty-three minutes Dr van de Veere would form a written judgment as to my mental stability. I know I was defensive.

  He was a big angular man with a gentle South African accent and an air of having heard it all before. He looked to me like a man who has spent ages searching through his wardrobe, studying himself in the mirror, to achieve the look that says he has just blindly selected the first thing that came to hand. But beneath that studiedly casual façade, his gaze was as sharp and quick as a predatory bird’s. All the speed, all the power, were in his favour. Vulnerability was, I know, eroding my natural courtesy. There was a degree of impertinence in my challenges, a resentment edging my answers to his questions. It was probably undermining my defence but I neither knew not cared at this moment in the trajectory of my dying.

  ‘What gives you people the right to try to stop me if I want to end my life?’ I slurred out. ‘I have to live it; you don’t. My outlook is grim. I’ve had enough. It wasn’t a cry for help. It was a mature decision; a solution to my problem.’

  I could see the huge effort of concentration it took him to decipher my speech. He said all the predictable things about wanting to help me to help myself.

  ‘Forget the psychobabble!’ I shot out rudely. ‘MND is enough justification.’