Right to Die

by Hazel McHaffie

  À propos of nothing: I’m worth more to Naomi dead than alive.

  It was more than a physical relief for her. There was someone available if he got into difficulties. There was someone to stop him attempting anything silly.

  23 JULY—It was a perfect opportunity – presented to me on a plate.

  What are my own goals and hopes? Brendan wanted to know. Given his intimate involvement in my life, there seemed no point in prevaricating. And to his credit he was completely unfazed by my honesty.

  I was impressed. He agreed that death by euthanasia can be less traumatic than death from natural causes (he read the same BMJ article!) and that there are distinct advantages in families having time to prepare, to talk openly about death, and a chance to say goodbye. So far, so good.

  Having heard me out, he didn’t offer an opinion either way but simply said he would be talking to Naomi too, to ascertain her wishes. I suddenly felt less secure. My honesty might backfire on me. But it’s therapeutic, anyway, just to be in the company of someone who can bear to listen to dark thoughts without feeling the need to say something comforting or to knock down my arguments. A fair hearing counts for a lot round here.

  I sneaked in a few choice snippets about Naomi: her selflessness, her stoicism, how this whole business has changed her. How she’s my biggest concern these days. And it’s true, not just a ploy to strengthen my case for him. I still see that look sometimes; as if she’s keeping her own feelings suppressed and in an unguarded moment they bubble up and I see… I can’t quite put a finger on it… but I know I’m not meant to.

  I have to make Brendan see she’s the one who’ll be left to pick up the pieces. The further down I drag her now, the steeper the climb back up to normal life again afterwards. I have to get him on my side, for her sake as well as my own.

  The early hours I just couldn’t bear to lie there. Whatever I tried, or Naomi tried, I just could not get comfortable. She grew more tense; I became more morose. She wept; I snapped.

  ‘This is silly,’ I hissed. ‘We hired Brendan so you wouldn’t have to do any of this.’

  Brendan made nothing of being woken. He took over without a qualm. I was carted off to my study and Naomi despatched back to bed with a cup of hot chocolate (also made by Brendan). He massaged my joints and pressure points, piled things round me to hold me upright but cushioned, and handed me a fortified drink – I didn’t ask what he’d laced it with. But my brain raced with the possibilities. It was too soon to suggest a lethal combination.

  I’ve dispatched him back to bed and I’m going to write myself into sleepfulness.

  In spite of the fact that this is what he’s paid for, I feel irrationally guilty for disturbing Brendan’s sleep. I guess it’ll take me a while to adjust. I should feel more guilty for having disturbed Naomi’s sleep all these weeks and months.

  Her tears tonight are a salutary reminder of what this is doing to her. Exhaustion is making us both irritable and upset. Being together for long periods is getting harder to deal with. It’s exquisite torture.

  Now Brendan is in residence I hold a trump card. A bad night for me is a bad night for her. She must move into the other bedroom, she must get out and have a fuller life, she must start to conserve her resources.

  Should I invest in a special bed to facilitate changes of position (as Brendan has suggested)? Or sleeping tablets? Or something more lethal?

  Eternal sleep sounds like bliss. Is Brendan the key? A pillow over my face? An injection of air into my veins?

  I think it was Victor Hugo who said, ‘The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved.’ I have been loved; I am still loved. I do not want to get to a point where that is in question.

  ‘You were, you were! So very, very much.’

  Through a blur Naomi felt the sudden rush of fur as Noelani leapt into her lap. She turned in circles for a moment, her nose scenting, her tail erect, before she wrapped everything in concentric circles and buried her face out of sight. It took only seconds to produce a contented purr.

  If only Naomi’s own needs could be as easily met. There was no one now to smooth away her cares. How she missed the touch of Adam’s hands, mussing her hair, caressing her skin. The sheer Adam-ness of the man.

  24 JULY—Having one constant carer is great; having him on site is a terrific boon. I no longer have to hang around half the morning waiting for a shower. I don’t have to wait for Naomi to pop in at lunchtime for a drink. I can eat, go to the loo, take a nap, just when I feel like it. I am no longer obliged to go to bed when someone else can fit it in.

  Better still, Brendan doesn’t impose his schedule, or his methods on me. He listens, he fits everything around my requests. Maximum efficiency, minimum fuss. He doesn’t stand gossiping. We don’t have to keep working at getting to know each other and I find I can accept what he offers without breaking my concentration.

  Writing is again a tremendous outlet. My piece for Arkwright is taking shape very nicely. I’m eager to get to work each morning. My inner spark – that third original aim – is burning more brightly again.

  That’s not to say I’ve given up on my quest for a way out – once I’ve finished Arkwright’s feature, that is. I’m looking for the perfect escape into oblivion: ‘immaculate anonymity’ (the reverse of immaculate conception). Pity it has to involve doing something premeditated. I wish I could cast an invisibility cloak over myself and simply just not be there any more.

  When I did eventually nod off in my chair last night, I dreamed of my mother. Not surprising really, given my current preoccupations. In this case I guess it was more of a nightmare than a dream, because she was in full punitive mode, with just enough sorrow in her voice to make me feel guilty rather than rebellious. And her presence seemed so real. In the cold light of day I rather suspect I was only half-asleep and it was my subconscious playing tricks.

  ‘Life is a sacred trust.’

  ‘We’re only stewards, we don’t have absolute dominion.’

  ‘Suffering is part of God’s plan for mankind. Don’t fight it. Embrace it.’

  ‘Share in Christ’s redemptive suffering.’

  The sentiments were hers. The voice was hers. The language was not. I must have read this stuff somewhere and stored it in some corner of my brain.

  I woke unrefreshed. And feeling a keen desire to talk to Ernest Kane. Maybe Brendan can factor him too into our timetable.

  25 JULY—I’ve lost track of the number of times Joel has ‘popped up’. He commented on my fatigue. I told him about the bad nights, then gave him an account of the nightmare of Mother’s visit. He shrugged.

  ‘It’s your life. You don’t have to answer to her.’

  ‘Would you… would it trouble you… if I ended it… deliberately?’ I felt my palms sweating. His opinion matters hugely.

  ‘I’d miss you.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t… would it be like Dad’s death?’

  ‘Well, as you know, I don’t have your hang-ups about that. It happened. I guess he had his reasons.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘I understand your reasons.’

  ‘And you’d… forgive me?’

  ‘Nothing to forgive. Like I say, it’s your life.’

  ‘What if I asked you… to help me?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Hold a pillow over my face?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Adam.’ He stepped back from me. ‘You aren’t seriously…?’

  ‘No.’ I waited until my voice steadied. ‘I just wondered. That’s all.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said again, staring at me.

  ‘I know. I couldn’t either.’

  He frowned slightly.

  ‘With Mum.’ I waited for the picture to formulate. ‘Even if she’d wanted it, I couldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t ask you.’

  ‘You’re… my brother!’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.’

  The silence hung between us.

  ‘For
what it’s worth, I think you’ve been a hero. I wouldn’t have stuck it like you have,’ he said unevenly.

  I shook my head, buying time. ‘Nice of you to say so, but it’s all a show. There’s a great big coward inside struggling to get out.’

  ‘I wish…’ He broke off abruptly.

  I stretched out one hand and he gripped it hard in both his own.

  ‘Thanks, Jo, for everything.’

  After a long moment, he let go of my hand and slapped the back of my chair. ‘Hey, big bro! Where shall we go today then?’

  Reflecting on that brief exchange now, safely away from his perceptive eyes, I’m content.

  I have his permission.

  Naomi resolved to share this with Joel that evening.

  The conversation had shaken him to the core – more than Adam ever knew. He’d been strangely silent with her that weekend, endlessly mulling over the request, and his answer.

  ‘I never thought he’d ask. Not actually ask!’ he blurted out late that night.

  ‘He’s only testing the water. He needs to know how we all feel about it,’ she soothed.

  ‘But… I couldn’t.’

  ‘He’ll understand. He knows why.’

  ‘But I feel as if I’m letting him down – just when he needs me to be strong for him.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘And you; I’m letting you down too. I said I wanted to help you too.’

  ‘And d’you think it would help me knowing you’d killed your own brother? Come on!’

  ‘But somebody needs to help him.’

  ‘I honestly believe it will all work out in the end – without either of us doing… that.’ In reality it was more a wish than a conviction.

  27 JULY—Joel is certainly not Brendan when it comes to the mechanics of personal care but what he lacks in dexterity he makes up for in humour. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I could in one stroke give Brendan a day off and keep my brother to myself.

  I told Joel about Ernest Kane. We went together to his morning service. On my own I think I would have enjoyed the feel-good factor of worship; with Joel I was too conscious of his scepticism to really lose myself in the feeling. But Mr Kane’s welcome was as warm as ever and I found myself suggesting we meet… soon? He promised to ring and arrange a date. I left with a spring in my heart, if not my step.

  But there was nothing springy in my heart at 8 tonight. It was harder than ever to watch my scamp of a brother leave. His hug was too eloquent, the complete absence of humour in word or act was too final for my composure. His presence is still here now, like a watermark against my eyes.

  28 JULY—Monday again. Brendan is back in control.

  Lydia came at 10 on the dot. I have an unspoken dread that she is relinquishing her role to him.

  I don’t ask – I might not like the answer.

  We were never alone; Brendan watched her every move; watched and learned.

  There was no hint of the Caribbean, not even with me.

  Curtis arrived after morning surgery. He had a consultation with Brendan first but when he came to see me, mercifully Brendan didn’t follow. I don’t know who set this up, I’m just grateful.

  ‘Buchanan working out?’ he asked me.

  ‘Brilliantly.’

  ‘I’m glad. How’re things otherwise?’

  We darted through the gathering storm clouds and possible lightning conductors at our disposal, which led seamlessly into the subject of my death.

  ‘There’s one thing that’s still bugging me,’ I said.

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘Well, I just can’t see… Tell me, Doc, the difference between forseeing that a patient will die if you give him extra drugs to keep him comfortable, and intending the drug to kill him; is it just different legally?’

  ‘No, it’s different experientially. The intention makes it different. It feels different. And morally it’s different, too.’

  ‘Morally? How so?’

  ‘I’m under a prima facie moral obligation to care for my patients within the law. Killing them is morally wrong.’

  I nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  Still churned up about Joel, I have no heart for battle.

  He leaned forwards suddenly. ‘Can I ask you something? – just out of interest. It’s not a criticism.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘What made you so opposed to going to a self-help group?’

  ‘I don’t want my identity to be defined by my MND.’

  ‘An interesting perspective. I’ll remember that.’

  ‘And I haven’t got the space to bear other people’s emotions.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘And I don’t want my nose rubbed in what comes next.’

  It wasn’t the full story, of course. But it served the purpose.

  ‘So how do you want to be identified?’ he asked conversationally, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘As a writer…’

  We were well into literary criticism when Brendan appeared with the coffee and an offer of lunch. I was suddenly completely exhausted. Like a deflated balloon four days after a party.

  It was weird seeing Adam’s account of this conversation, which made it seem so fluid, so coherent. In reality, his fractured speech and tortured respirations, had made all exchanges slow and laboured by this stage. How appallingly frustrating to have his brain continuing to grapple with complex issues like these, but to be trapped in a body that refused to keep up with his thinking.

  No wonder Dr Curtis had marvelled.

  He’d emerged from this conversation looking bemused.

  ‘He’s amazing. I don’t know how he does it.’

  She’d smiled ruefully, and when he’d left, berated herself for her own impatience with Adam’s endless analysis of his situation. Dr Curtis seemed so much more calm about listening, over and over again, until he understood.

  A sigh escaped her now. Sharing secrets, when it was too late to respond, was so draining.

  30 JULY—I’m still flabbergasted by that discussion with Curtis on Monday.

  I’ve been denying it, but I know my concentration is poor these days. Attention span of an autistic gnat! I can still write (at the speed of a snail with a ball and chain) but talking and really listening are getting harder every day. Words elude me; which is an incredibly painful development, but probably good for my pride, and maybe part of the continuing punishment that Mother predicted for me when I was five and cheeky to her. Maybe the ‘outer darkness’ into which I was to be cast, where there would be ‘weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth’, is not being able to articulate words.

  This latest deterioration has forced me to contemplate the immediate future. It’s not a pretty picture: me pointing at pictures to make my wishes known, uttering nothing more illuminating than offensive grunts. Brendan, Curtis, Lydia, Chloe, humouring me like a child. Naomi looking at me with pity in her eyes.

  In desperation I told Naomi what this latest development was like. She made a joke of it, told me she can’t remember things nearly as well as she did ten years ago either. It was the last straw.

  I cannot bear this. I CAN NOT.

  I WILL NOT!

  She could take no more. Scalding tears fell while she scrubbed the dining room carpet, heedless of the shampoo spraying onto the furniture.

  10 AUGUST—Another weekend with Joel. I noticed for the first time the lines around his eyes, the drawn look on his face in repose. He reminds me of Father. I’m afraid I’m to blame.

  All through today I had to distance myself from him, switch off my heart, just to get through the hours. Now he’s gone I want to hold his bright image in my head without letting go.

  I need the diary again. It’s taken a back seat of late. I’ve been concentrating all my diminishing reserves on finishing Arkwright’s feature. First draft is done. But it’s so exhausting even typing now, I can’t do both. Maybe the diary’s day is nearly done.

  Where am I with all th
is?

  Both resolve and plan are getting stronger by the hour. Brendan has been here three weeks now. I still haven’t asked him outright if he’ll help me. I nearly did last night but I heard him out in the kitchen laughing with Naomi. They were together; I was alone.

  17 AUGUST—Another week has dragged by. Nothing gets better, some things get worse.

  My wrists are so weak now. Curtis has asked Lydia to do what she can. Her presence may be magical but she can’t turn water into wine.

  I still haven’t asked Brendan. But on Friday, my door was open, I could see the hall mirror: he was hugging Naomi.

  She’s always saying, ‘Brendan thinks… Brendan says…’

  Naomi smiled for the first time in days. This pain at least was short lived.

  18 AUGUST—Naomi came out with it in a rush this evening.

  ‘Brendan wants to know if he’s offended you in some way.’

  ‘Can’t he ask me himself?’

  ‘Would you tell him?’

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘Saw me what?’

  ‘Hugging Brendan. Last night.’

  ‘What? I never… Ahhhhhhh!’ and she actually grinned at this point. ‘Actually he was hugging me!’

  I waited.

  ‘And for your information, Mr Green Eyes, he was just being sympathetic.’

  ‘About what? Being saddled to a cripple?’

  ‘No, being saddled to a jealous grump!’

  I looked at her hard.

  ‘Idiot! Of course not. I had a bad day in court on Friday; my family didn’t get to keep the kid they’d been fostering for ages. I was upset. He was just being comforting.’

  My conscience smote me – I should be the one to comfort her. I didn’t even notice she was upset.

  She shot me an arch look.

  ‘Besides, didn’t you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Brendan. He bats for the other side!’

  It never entered my head. But now I know, I’m suddenly squeamish. All that physical care, the intimate personal things. Idiotic, I know. I didn’t attribute ulterior motives to all those female carers.

  It had been such a depressing time for them all, seeing Adam withdrawing into an irrational, self-centred place.