A Good Death

by Gil Courtemanche

  “Park… in… son’s… William…”

  And my father wipes up more wine with his bread. “This my body… this my blood,” he says, and swallows Christ whole. My mother laughs. She’d forgotten, she says, that her husband had a sense of humour.

  “When I first met your father he always made me laugh. Do you remember how funny you were?”

  “Yes.”

  We hear the front door open and the Banker appears in the doorway. Visits from the children have become more frequent in the past year, and come at the most unexpected times. We invent reasons for dropping in, excuses my mother is not taken in by, but she doesn’t mind. The children are keeping an eye on them, because of my father’s falls, because his illness is becoming more and more worrisome, because my mother is exhausted. And anyway, these short visits break the silence, which for her is not the absence of sound, but the absence of conversation. I believe she has survived so well because she can still talk.

  “So, I see we’re ignoring all the advice from the doctors. I was bringing you some salad and a bowl of basmati rice.”

  She is angry. It’s quite obvious. Her eyes accuse my mother of treason. And William, drinking wine. My mother replies calmly that we’re just finishing up the leftovers from Christmas dinner, that it still feels a bit like Christmas.

  “Sal… ad… Yuck.”

  And my father grabs the wine bottle and hands it to the Banker, who winces and shoots us a vicious look.

  “You’re completely drunk and ridiculous. Mother, we’ll talk about this later. As for you,” she says, looking at my father, “you are obviously trying to kill yourself.”

  She doesn’t hear his Yes because it’s mu±ed by a mouthful of pâté and bread. Like a vaudeville actress, she tosses her head, hoists her enormous bosom with her crossed arms and stomps out. My father laughs. My mother’s expression is veiled. William pours himself a bit more wine. I’m relieved. With the intrusion and another round of wine after William digs out the second bottle, the conversation might get stalled. We’ll talk about the Banker for a while, my father will fall asleep, my mother’s eyes will flutter and she’ll talk about going to bed. William, who has been drinking too fast, will get the hiccups, and we’ll settle on a date for another get-together over veal liver and lobster and steak tartare with fries after all the entrées we can possibly eat. And then, of course, the cheeses: the raw-milk Bries, the triple-creams, the Pont-l’Évêque; followed by tarte tatin with ice cream. Did I forget to mention the beef marrow and the escargot Chablisienne, the pig’s knuckles and the eggs in red wine sauce? I hope to stuff them both with enough fat to plug every artery in their bodies, to thicken their blood to the point of coagulation, let it bring on a stroke or a bout of terminal indigestion. I’m ready to help them die a natural death, maybe accelerate the aging process by drowning them in glucose and calories, but not to kill them, even if they ask me to. I have no desire to be an assassin. I know, I know, it wouldn’t be murder, it would be called euthanasia. I’m in favour of euthanasia, I’ve signed a petition calling for it, I’ve brought up Holland as an example of a society motivated by compassion. But it is not in me to kill my parents. And yet I hope…

  “Grandma, how do you want to die?”

  “Asleep in my bed, like anyone else.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Except that I think, given where we are at this moment, with your grandfather and me it’s a bit different. Dying in bed, in your sleep, that’s what people hope for if they’re afraid of dying. When you’re afraid of dying it makes sense that you don’t want to be aware you’re dying at the moment it happens. With us, we want to decide when it’s time, we want to have time to say goodbye, to have a look around, to do things we like doing. For example, I’d like to go to France before I die. There, you see, I’d forgotten about it because your grandfather couldn’t go with me. Do you understand? To do a few wonderful things, then come home, go to bed, look at the wall at the end of the bed one last time, the photographs on the bedside table, and then just drift off to sleep thinking okay, that’s it, I’m too tired to wake up and I’ve done everything I wanted to do down here. Knowing that when you close your eyes you enter the end of your life. You know, I’m talking calmly about it now, but I admit I’m a bit afraid. It’s like diving into a lake for the first time. I’m not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of what happens after that.”

  She has been speaking quietly, almost in a whisper, as though she were telling a story to a child who was going to sleep. My father nods his agreement and pours a glass of wine. She turns to me.

  “You must know Dr. Death, the American.”

  Yes, I know about Jack Kevorkian. A dozen or so years ago I thought of writing a play loosely based on his story. At first, only hopeless cases go to him, people with terminal illnesses or debilitating diseases like Alzheimer’s or sclerosis of the liver. Those are the first 138 people he helps to commit suicide. In my play, he starts thinking of himself as God. He calls himself the Medical Liberator. He’s a marketing genius, taking out huge ads on television and radio. You are exhausted by life, you want to die, but you don’t have the courage to do it alone. Well, I’m here to free you from your intolerable burden. Professional treatment, satisfaction guaranteed. In my play, the deus ex machina doesn’t ask if his client is bipolar, and so he doesn’t prescribe lithium. As Dr. Life, he opens Houses of Death, welcoming, functioning hospices, just as we are in the process of opening Houses of Life. Where we have midwives helping people give birth, he has midwives helping people to die. In my play, a young black girl walks onstage, hunched over, face covered with the marks of a brutal attack. She says a few words about how tired she is, how she’s had enough. The doctor knows that she’s been raped. He doesn’t even ask. He imagines the shame, the rejection by her family, her precarious future as an unemployed single mother. He doesn’t hesitate a second; he offers her a death room, free of charge. He can afford to be generous. This is where I stopped writing, because I was at the point where I had to ask the question: Can a person be mistaken in thinking he wants to die? I’ve read that thousands of women were raped in Rwanda and gave birth to their accursed children whose fathers were rapists and murderers, but my friend Esther has told me that many of those children are happy and that their mothers, although they certainly contemplated suicide, have gone on to mend their lives with the fragile branches of hope. So if we agree with people when they say they want to die, might we not be denying ourselves a few happy children? The question my play wanted to ask, I now know, is so complex I don’t even have the words to phrase it. But I continue mulling it over as I watch my mother chatting with William, and my father spitting a mouthful of bread into his plate without my mother even furrowing her brow. If a person wants to die, you kill him. That’s how you show respect for the wishes of another. That at least is the equation. But what if a person tells you he wants to die and he’s wrong, he doesn’t really want to die? He has exaggerated his suffering, wants only to be comforted, supported, someone to be a springboard, someone to give him something to help see him through. Because in heavy black boxes he has hidden the magnificent drawings that he has never shown anyone because his father always yelled at him, called him stupid for drawing frogs with the heads of birds and the eyes of little girls. If you kill him, you’re a murderer, not a friend. Or take a more complicated example. Your mother, who all her life has been perfectly reasonable and sensible, asks you to kill her. You know how exhausted she is, even if you don’t know anything about her private pain and humiliation. Out of compassion, you accept. But what if she’s wrong? What if my father’s wish to die is just another of his endless crises of pride? What if all either of them wants is a little more happiness in the short time that remains to them, time which they can feel seeping into their bones and arteries? So there it is, my answer. They want to die as quickly as possible, but they want to die happily and naturally. But what is happiness to the elderly who say they want to go?

  I tell them the
story of Dr. Kevorkian, who was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for second-degree murder. I explain his modus operandi. A suicide machine was left on the patient’s bedside table. The patient operated the mechanism, which first injected him with a powerful sleeping draft, and then, ten minutes later, with a lethal dose of potassium chloride. Death was guaranteed. In my research I also discovered a machine made by the Australian doctor Philip Nitschke. I don’t know what this one looked like, but it emitted a litre of carbon monoxide per minute. Death came as a gentle form of intoxication. A congenial death! The victim was spared the tedious business of attaching some kind of tube, usually a rubber garden hose, to his or her car’s tailpipe, and… well, you know the drill. We all know the problem of committing suicide in an automobile. The set-up is fairly simple plumbing, but it leaves the victim a lot of time to have second thoughts.

  My father and mother are too tired for that. My mother doesn’t like such a mechanical way of ending her life. William, on the other hand, thinks it would be cool to have some kind of contraption meting out death with scientific precision. If he knew the exact formula for the sleeping draft and the gas, he could make one of those machines. My mother asks him if he wants to end up in prison like the American doctor.

  “A… good… death,” my father says. “We… have… no… car.”

  My mother laughs.

  “We could rent one,” Sam laughs with her. “We could rig it up and start a business.”

  Dad laughs, everyone laughs. Sam beams with pleasure. He feels useful. He reaches his hand out to my father and, when my father’s hand moves towards his he raises it, fingers spread wide, and waits. My father, who does almost nothing but watch television and so is familiar with the new customs of adolescent culture, instantly understands Sam’s gesture, and also opens his palm and spreads his fingers. They give each other high-fives, which they repeat as though they were both members of the same gang.

  “So what are we going to eat on New Year’s Eve?” my mother asks.

  From his backpack, Sam takes a piece of rolled paper tied with a red ribbon, which looks a bit like a diploma.

  “Here’s the other half of your Christmas present, Grandpa. It was supposed to go with the madiran. The Nicolas Web site also publishes recipes.”

  He hands the scroll to me and says: “Read it.”

  “‘The true recipe for Cassoulet de Castlenaudary. In a large, earthenware casserole dish place a quarter of a litre of dried white beans that have been soaked in water for several hours, add 300 grams of salt pork belly, 200 grams of bacon, one carrot, one onion stuck with six cloves, and a bouquet garni containing three cloves of garlic. Cover with water and simmer until beans are soft.

  “‘In a frypan, fry until golden in lard or, preferably, goose fat, 750 grams of lean pork and 500 grams of lean lamb liberally seasoned with salt and pepper. When the meat is the desired colour, add two finely minced onions, a bouqet garni and two garlic cloves, crushed. Allow to simmer for about one hour, adding beef broth as needed to keep the mixture moist. A small amount of tomato paste or several peeled, diced tomatoes may also be added.’”

  “Yes… tomatoes,” my father says, almost without drawling, as though his Parkinson’s is in remission.

  He is not drooling, his mouth is watering. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and holds his pewter wine cup with a steady hand.

  “‘When the beans are ready, remove the carrot, onion and bouquet garni and add the pork and lamb, pieces of fresh garlic-flavoured pork sausage, saucisson and goose confit. Simmer for one hour. Remove the pieces of meat. Cut the pork, lamb, sausages and goose into thin, equal slices. Line the bottom of an earthenware pot with slices of bacon and a bed of beans, then a layer of the sliced meat with the sauce, then more beans, then more meat, and so on, ending with thin slices of salt pork belly, bacon and sausage. Then sprinkle with bread crumbs and moisten with goose fat. Cover the pot and allow to bake in the oven at a low temperature for 90 minutes. Serve.’”

  “Do you know where the word cassoulet comes from, Grandpa? It’s an old word from Languedoc, a region in the southwest of France, and it comes from the word cassoule, which was the earthenware bowl that they simmered the stew in.”

  “I want some.”

  My father is not expressing a desire; for the first time in years he is issuing an order.

  “Even… if… not… good for… my heart.”

  And he pounds his chest hard, just to the right of centre, where he thinks his heart is situated.

  ISABELLE AMAZES ME. I TELL HER ABOUT OUR LUNCH, STILL CAUGHT UP IN MY CONFUSION BETWEEN DREAM AND REALITY, SURPRISED to find myself laughing about it, stunned at feeling close to this couple I have never really believed in and who now seem to be taking shape before my very eyes. You were laughing at death, she says, do you realize that? So what did you decide? Nothing, really, nothing specific. That’s the whole problem. My father went to lie down and my mother ended the discussion by tossing the ball into our court with a malicious little smile, as though to say: “Now that you know what we want, what are you going to do to help us?” What she in fact said was that for New Year’s Eve dinner we’ll have the cassoulet, nothing else—oh, she almost forgot, oysters for appetizers. And cheese, of course, and why not a Saint-Honoré cake? As for the other thing, she said, simply, probably for my benefit, we’ll talk about it later, when the time comes. There are a few things they have to do first. Like what? Oh, maybe go camping and fishing, we’ll discuss it later, dear. And she showed us calmly to the door.

  “You laughed at death?” Isabelle repeats, with a smile.

  Well, yes, but not as much as they did, and Isabelle, you cannot imagine the storm of controversy that this menu of hers is going to unleash. I can hear the Homeopath, the Banker and the Nurse already, the scornful, nasty remarks they’ll make every time my father takes a mouthful of food, the I-told-you-so’s with every belch and hot flash. The New Year will begin with unbearable family chaos. So what’s new? she says, putting her arms around me. According to her, I have the only totally dysfunctional family that seems to function very well, thank you very much, and keeps on functioning, albeit in a kind of chaotic harmony. This organized shambles, this cacophony of orders, opinions, directives and proclamations in which I have lived since childhood, doesn’t really bother me. It’s my mother and father who terrify me. Dad, knowing nothing of our wild machinations, and Mother, who knows my every thought, chose us, William-Sam and me, to be their Dr. Kevorkian. At a time to be determined by them, without consulting us, they’ll tip us the nod and we’ll off them. Because despite all the hilarity we have entered into a pact. Nothing stated, nothing so firm as a handshake, but a contract nonetheless. We know we said Yes. The word yes has been resounding in my head for a long time now, taking up all available space, swallowing neurons left and right, whether my mouth was able to articulate it or not. I have had the psychological equivalent of Parkinson’s disease.

  IT’S RAINING CATS AND DOGS. DECEMBER 31ST IN A YEAR OF GLOBAL WARMING. WHEN I ARRIVED WITH WILLIAM TO START THE CASSOULET, my mother told me that there was nothing to worry about, all the children have been told what was on the menu and in each case their medical and moralistic jeremiads stopped when she explained to them that this would be their last New Year’s Eve. The Banker, who’s been cool with my mother since Boxing Day, comes into the kitchen chewing out her husband for not holding the umbrella properly and hands me a bag, saying she made a rice salad for anyone who still has a brain left in their head. “You’re free to eat whatever you want, my dear,” my mother tells her, “even in my house, but don’t put it on the table. You can come in here to the kitchen to serve yourself.”

  “Mother, be reasonable.”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, dear.”

  Hardly anyone arrives empty-handed. It’s as though habit has more weight with them than my mother’s wishes. Each carries a dish, as tradition dictates, even though she told them all not to bring anything.
She greets everyone by saying, “Thanks but no thanks.” The Homeopath is practically in tears and my mother has to be firm. For lunch she and my father had calf’s liver and bacon, English style. My sister, who calls herself a natural healer after having come out of a long depression and is now a rabid vegetarian and a fierce separatist, regards eating English calf’s liver as an insult to nature and capitulation to the enemy.

  After spending time in the kitchen pouring ourselves aperitifs, we move into the family room, lightly touching Dad’s hand or kissing him gingerly on the lips, as we would a religious relic, without expecting an answer to our How-are-you-feelings. We’ve been like this since the onset of his illness. Mother has already been drinking. I tell her I can tell, smiling. A little port, dear, it gives me strength for the meal. William looks worried and his mother hugs him, happy that he’s thinking about the two casseroles in the oven rather than the classic Russian Opening in chess. The tragedy of modern parenthood: they no longer have children, they have strangers in children’s bodies. My mother interrupts my thoughts.

  “Your father is writing now. He writes instead of trying to talk.”

  After we left on Boxing Day he sat down at his desk, took a pad of lined paper from the drawer and for hours forced himself to line up a series of letters, rapt in studious silence as though he had gone back to elementary school. First he covered an entire page with a’s, then b’s, right up to z’s, the entire alphabet, then carefully placed the pages in the drawer as if they were a valuable document. The next day, more pages were covered with words, random and with no apparent sense connecting them—smoke, eat, thanks, slut, Europe—dozens and dozens of words settling themselves more or less comfortably on the lines of the paper. Then he started on sentences, most of which also had no meaning. “A butterfly cries bacon.” When my mother asked him what it meant, he wrote: “Nothing. I’m just writing sentences that stay on the lines, and as you should know it’s not easy to start speaking again. I try words. I put them together in a straight line.” He spent the entire week working like an opinionated and persevering schoolboy. My mother had to go to a stationery store to buy another dozen pads of lined paper and some notebooks. For her it was a week of serene calm and happiness such as she had not known in three years. He wrote ceaselessly. That afternoon he handed her a page from a notebook. She crumpled it up and stuck it in her sleeve, as the absent-minded aged do with Kleenex. She smooths it out and hands it to me. The writing is shaky but clear. “It’s a good idea to go together.” Yes. A tear floods down a crease in her face. She does not wipe it away with the back of her hand, as she normally would do. It poises at the top of her lip, drops onto her tongue, and she licks it. A liberated tear, probably her first.