by Lisa Samson
The way she connects at least five times a day, you think I’d be used to this noise.
But hey! I got on.
I pull up a site called Google because it’s one of those search engines and I like the name. I type in the words “assisted suicide, legal, and Europe.” It’s midnight and it’s taken me this long to gather up the courage to get things in motion. Peta’s making a list of all the things she’ll do in her new life, chattering all the time. She’s formed a relationship of her own with Yo, and they’re already planning a trip to the beach in the summer. That will be nice for them. I asked her if it’s okay if Matthew stays down here and works again this summer, and she said, “Of course, Pearly, why-ever not?”
So he’s taken care of for a while. I started putting my assets together with his name on them too. Things on this end are almost set to go, if I can just find a surgeon to agree to the rest. The Google search is finished, and I see that I may have more than one country from which to choose.
Mom and Dad are arguing. They don’t do it much, and only about Harry.
“When’s my turn, Valerie?” he says. “How much longer will I be put in storage for the sake of that idiot?”
“That idiot, as you call him, is your son, Carl.”
“I wish to God—”
“Dont say that. Don’t ever say that to me again!”
The door slams, and the car door opens. I peer out my bedroom window expecting to see my father getting in. But it is Mom. She whirls in the spring breeze, shaking her fists toward the kitchen door. Her heel catches in the turf, and down she goes.
“Go get her, Daddy,” I whisper. “Go get her. Please.”
But she stays in solitude, sitting up and pounding the ground with her fists. I know she is crying.
I pull back, leave my bedroom and crawl in with Harry. He snuggles against me and smiles in his sleep.
You’re so lucky, I think.
Mortis Placidus. That’s their name. Peaceful death. An oxymoron, really. We’re all afraid to die. At least I am.
So we’ve gone back and forth in e-mails. This is far more complicated than I realized. I thought I’d just be able to die on the operating table. But from what? Kidney failure takes a long time. I’d have to build up the toxins and await a grueling death. And this isn’t an option anyway.
Here’s the way it will work, the way it will be if I convince them I’m a worthy candidate: I’ll have the operation, get checked out of the hospital, and go back to a Mortis apartment where I’ll take an overdose. I have to do it myself. That’s the law. And, of course, with the newfound condition of renal failure, I’ll be a prime candidate for death with dignity.
Switzerland is quickly becoming the death capital of the world for foreigners, thanks to Mortis. The legislature is concerned, not wanting their country to be known as the place to go for assisted suicide. I don’t blame them.
Isn’t it amazing what you can find out on the Internet?
It’s Valentine’s Day. I thought I’d be more depressed because Joey always made a huge to-do of Valentine’s Day. Flowers, candy, dinner out, and a thoughtful gift I didn’t even know I wanted until he gave it to me. But this year I made loads of valentines. Sent a bunch off to Luray with a giant box of candy. Even one to Matthew’s father. Sent a box off to Havre de Grace for Maida and Shrubby and the biggest care package you’ve ever seen for Matthew and his crew. They have a hard time getting dates, being such nice guys, so hopefully brownies, candy, and cards will ease the pain.
We hosted a Valentine’s dinner here at the house with Harry and some of the older, single choir members at church. The pianist sat down at the old upright, and we sang until eleven o’clock, a downright ghastly hour for many of these folk.
Yes, love was in the air. It may sound corny, but it’s true.
I’d forgotten how much I love the song “Shine On, Harvest Moon.”
I sit down to pencil a note to Yolanda’s LeeLee. She has a tough time with the girls in school. Well, I know about tough times with schoolmates, so much so that I feel that I am an expert in the subject.
The phone rings.
“Mrs. Laurel?” The accent is foreign, heavy.
“Yes?”
“This is Brigitte Hofmann in Switzerland.”
“Oh, my!”
“Sorry to disturb you. Is this a good time?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Your English is excellent.”
“Thank you. The society tries to make a phone call before we decide on whether or not to help someone. It helps to hear the voice, you see.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Now you have quite an interesting request and one which, I might add, will take a lot of planning to execute.”
Execute. That’s quite a choice of words!
“I see.”
“Yes. We have a record of your correspondence so far, but I’d like to hear you tell your story if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
I tell her everything. Joey’s death, Peta’s illness, and I play up my ingestion of antidepressants.
She listens in silence, and I keep going, trying to fill in the quiet gaps because, well, that’s just the way I am.
She tells me they’ll get back to me shortly, after a decision is made. “We’ve never had a case like this before, you see. There are a lot of logistics involved here. But we do have a surgeon in the society who might be open to this. Much of it will hinge on your depression. We do help in cases of mental illness, which is, of course, even more controversial than terminal diseases, you see.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
After we hang up, I sit still for a while, realizing that my life is in their hands.
I set pen to paper. I’ll leave this note for Peta when she returns from Switzerland. Hopefully it will explain a lot. And hopefully it will reassure her that her life is precious and she must resume it with all vigor as planned. I will write a letter to each person I love and hope they understand why I can’t go back now, why I have to do this. Dear God, I wish there was another way, but how can I tell Peta the surgery’s off? How can I tell her why?
My biggest regret by far is leaving Matthew. He doesn’t deserve this. But he’s strong, and Peta and Yolanda will step into the gap.
Dear Peta,
By now you’ll know that I did not survive the transplant. You do not yet know why because I instructed the doctors to tell you I died of heart failure, and in the end, I guess we all do. But you deserve to know the truth.
I only had one good kidney. The other one was the size of an infant’s and didn’t function. At the time I offered the transplant, I truly wanted to die and saw this as a good way to do so, to sacrifice a life not worth living for one that is. So I offered.
And then, life began to open up for me! I found faith, love, and even hope, all those things, and the world became beautiful once again. It’s still beautiful, Peta. Use this gift to the fullest. Don’t let your anger at me sabotage what you can and should do with your good health. I’m so excited for you.
In any case, I did this because I love you. You have to know that. We’ve been through a lot together these past couple of years. You’ve become my best friend and companion. But seeing you struggle has been harder than you can imagine. I yearned to comfort you, to heal you, and now I have.
Just remember, I’m with God now, and Joey, and you know I have much to tell him. We’ll be catching up for a good long time, and heaven knows, we’ll certainly have a lot of that.
While I’m frightened at what lies ahead, I know there’s much to look forward to. Keep singing Cousin, keep praying, keep loving. You have so much to give. Take care of Harry and Matthew, too.
Love, Pearly
A representative meets us at the airport in Zurich and escorts us to the apartment. It is a secretly located apartment and very nice. Clean and sparsely yet comfortably furnished, as the Web site promised. Two bedrooms, one for the patient and the other for the normally accompany
ing family member, sprout off the back hallway.
Our escort says little, his eyes crinkling in the rearview mirror every once in a while at Peta’s excited chatter. That’s also something new about Peta. She chatters happily now. A beautiful sound.
We set her machine up in one of the bedrooms for tonight and open our bags. A box of dialysis solution has already been delivered.
The rooms possess that spare European aura. Clean, flat surfaces like islands in a sea of cream and tan. Peaceful and without fuss or excess.
Peta gazes around her, breathes in deeply, exhales loudly, and shakes her head. “Isn’t this the blandest apartment you’ve ever seen?”
“Well, it is owned by the hospital.”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“True. I’ll sure be glad to get back home.”
“We only left yesterday.”
She says nothing in response.
“Ready to go?” I ask a few minutes later after freshening up in the closet-sized bathroom. We need to talk to the doctors today, sign the papers and such, and then we’ll be free for dinner out on the town. Brigitte is taking us then, and I want to enjoy my last meal. I’m trying to be matter-of-fact about all this. It’s hard, don’t get me wrong, but I’m succeeding to some extent, for Peta’s sake.
“I can’t believe this is my last night on this thing.”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
She nods. “Thank you, Pearly. Thank you for giving me this chance.”
I just sit down next to her and band my arms around her. I wonder what whispers now through her head, but I don’t want to ask. This is hard enough. It would be so much fun to experience life with the new Peta Kaiser.
“Let’s go,” I say. “We don’t want to be late for our appointments.”
Naturally, we have two different surgeons. Mine belongs to Mortis. Hers? I don’t know. Maybe so, maybe not. It doesn’t matter.
Dr. Tran Reinhardt shows me into his office. “Mrs. Laurel, we meet face to face!”
“Yes, we do.”
“Have a seat. I must tell you that it’s a good thing you’re doing for your cousin. She seems like a wonderful person.”
“Yes, she is.”
He folds his hands and lays them on his desk. “Now, I have to ask you one more time, are you certain you wish to go through with this?”
I nod.
“All right then. I have some papers for you to sign, releasing the society from all legal recourse.”
“I expected that.”
He slides them across the desk and hands me a gold pen.
I stare at the pen. I stare at the form, realizing I’m literally signing my life away. A year ago I would have welcomed this.
“There aren’t many people who would go to such lengths,” he says.
“Well, with my husband gone …”
“Yes, that is a great consideration.”
He’s all sympathy. Good-looking too, with dark hair cropped closely and stunning hazel eyes.
I sign then, quickly and with a bold hand. Pearly Kaiser Laurel. The living dead.
“Surgery is tomorrow morning at eight. We’ll begin preparing you around six. You can change your mind at any time before we begin.”
“Thank you, I’ll remember that.”
He searches in his drawer, pulls out a tin of mints, and offers me one.
Mints. At a time like this. Crazy Europeans.
I shake my head. “And death by the barbiturates is peaceful?”
“Very.”
“No pain?”
“No.”
“How long does it take to die, Dr. Reinhardt?”
He places a mint on his tongue and returns the tin to the drawer. “Between thirty minutes and two hours. But believe me, Mrs. Laurel, you’ll go off into unconsciousness well before two hours. I promise you. It will be easy and relatively quick.”
“Yes. Compared to a lifetime lived.”
He smiles, and I wonder about his children and his wife as I look up and notice their smiling faces in a photo on the shelf behind him.
We enter the hospital at 5:45 A.M. It is quiet and cold. All is modern and generic and very smooth. Smooth windows, white walls, smooth shining floors. A place to slide right on into the inevitable. I should have more courage. I should tell the truth.
Peta looks scared. “What if something bad happens?”
“Well, there’s always that chance, Cousin. Nothing’s guaranteed.”
“That’s the truth.”
What if something bad happens? What if Peta dies on the table like Uncle Stewart? What could be worse? I’d then become a walking, breathing visual aid of guilt, this open target for any meddling mother seeking easy satisfaction.
Tell her right now, Pearly! There is another way!
But what can it be? I would think it would be evident, but so far nothing obvious has surfaced.
“Well”—she stops by a row of cushioned waiting-room chairs in the lobby and turns to me—“thank you. Thank you for doing this.”
I pull her into an embrace, trying my best not to heave the massive sob of dread gathered in my throat. I feel so tight, so aware. Her hair, still long, smells clean and feels soft against my cheek. I breathe her in, wondering exactly how many breaths I have left. I tell her I love her. She returns the words.
We continue walking.
“Have you ever counted the moles and liver spots on your hands, Peta?”
“No, why?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“How many do you have?”
“Fifty-eight blemishes altogether.”
“One for each year!”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“You’re a piece of work, Pearly.”
“More than you know.”
For some reason, I never pictured commencing the dying process in a backless hospital gown, naked and skinny underneath, looking more like a plucked chicken than ever. For some reason, I wanted to die with that mirrored shawl around me, my own equivalent of dying with your boots on. I wrote in my letter to Yolanda that I wanted her to have it. She’ll wear it too.
But yes, I will wear it when I die. It’s folded neatly in my suitcase back at the apartment.
I sit on the gurney, then lie down, the knots in the ties of the gown poking into my skin. Peta’s in another room, probably doing the same thing. Oh, I can’t wait for her to send that dialysis machine back to Baxter! No more boxes or tubing, and they’ll eventually remove that freaky abdominal catheter, too. How she hates that thing, and who can blame her? “I feel gross with this thing coming out of me,” she has said many times. All that will be over for her.
Dear God.
I can only pray. Heart to heart.
I hear Yo’s voice again. There is another way. Heart to heart.
The IV already impales my arm, and they’re wheeling me toward the operating theater. I look up. The ceiling lights slide by, and the chin of the orderly gyrates as he chews a piece of gum. It’s a perfect, narrow U, his chin, and I focus on it, noticing the stubble underneath and a small nick probably acquired during a quick shave the day before.
They transfer me to the table, and I try to help by digging my heels in and pushing off. Dr. Reinhardt takes my hand as soon as I’m settled. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
“Let’s get started then, all right?” He pats my hand. “Let me introduce you to the anesthesiologist, Dr. Wang.”
Dr. Wang smiles. “I’ll take good care of you, Mrs. Laurel.”
He looks just the way his name would suggest. Only he speaks with a German accent. What a juxtaposition.
“Please do.”
“You’re very brave.”
“Thank you.”
I cry out again inside, begging wordlessly.
I begin to shake uncontrollably.
“
It’s just the fluid going in, it’s cold,” Dr. Wang says.
But I know it’s more than that. Oh, God, please help me. Come to me out the back kitchen door and get me here as I lie on the ground.
“Now count backward from ten,” he says.
And I do. I mean, time stands still under anesthesia. By the time I get to five, I’ll be waking up, ready to lie some more.
I forgot that your hearing is the first sense that returns after general anesthesia.
“Mrs. Laurel?”
I can only groan.
“Blah, blah, blah,” in Swiss or something.
I groan again.
Then, “Oh, sorry. You made it through the surgery fine.”
I just want to sleep. I have a lot to think about, but all I want to do is sleep.
I manage to mutter, “My cousin?”
But no answer emerges through the mist, and I assume the nurse has walked away.
Nobody will tell me anything about Peta. And why not? Don’t they say the surgery is harder on the donor than the donee? Something’s wrong. She’s dead. Like Uncle Stewart.
I push the nurses button again. She enters my room five minutes later.
“Yes?”
“I want to see my doctor, and I want to see him right away. Something happened to my cousin, didn’t it? Why won’t anybody tell me anything?”
“Yes ma’am.” She gives me a brisk nod and hurries out.
Thirty minutes later, Dr. Reinhardt arrives. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Laurel?”
“Fine for a dying person. When will the transport back to the apartment arrive?”
“There’s been a change of plans, I’m afraid. Your cousin had a heart attack. There was no transplant.”
“A heart attack?”
“She will be fine. We have her under observation.”
A heart attack?
“And my kidney?”
“Is still inside you. Word came before we removed it, so we immediately stopped the surgery and stitched you back up.”
Oh, my. Oh, my.
