Life After Death: A Story of Love, Loss, and Living

by Jamie Hitchcock

  Amara looked up from her book with a furrowed brow. “A zebra?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I don’t know why I couldn’t think of that. It was right on the tip of my tongue.”

  Amara smiled at him softly and returned to her book.

  A little while later, he asked her again. “What was that animal again? With the stripes.”

  Amara reminded him politely, “Zebra.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I just forgot to write it in. I think I’m getting tired.” He rubbed his brow in an attempt to wipe the dullness from his eyes.

  “You should get some rest,” Amara said, leaning forward to sweep the hair away from his face. She nuzzled his shoulder.

  He shifted to face her as his eyes regained their focus, like a camera lens narrowing into frame.

  “Amara,” he started hesitantly, “I need you to do something for me. I can’t ask my mom, she wouldn’t understand. She’s had a hard-enough time dealing with all of this. Maybe I shouldn’t have come back here, shouldn’t have put it on her. And I know it’s not fair to ask you either, but I can’t trust anyone else with it.”

  The skin on the back of her neck prickled. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been doing some reading, aside from all the stuff the nurse gave us. They just passed a law, earlier this year actually, in the state of Washington. For people like me … you know, dying.”

  The tingling spread down Amara’s spine. She cringed, though she tried hard to hide it.

  “It’s called ‘death with dignity,’” he explained. The words sounded harsh no matter how much he tried to soften them.

  Amara sighed, straightening herself up on the couch.

  “I know what it’s called. I’ve been doing some research too. I know what you’re asking, Henry, but I don’t know if I could do it … do that to you. You are asking me to help you kill yourself …” She paused for a long while, fighting the tears that pressed urgently behind her eyes. “The medications are working for now, right? I mean, you’ve been feeling okay lately, so why do we need to think about that? It’s so, I don’t know, it’s just so final.”

  “It’s going to be final, Amara. If it’s not that, then it will be something else. The result is the same either way. I’d rather it be on my own terms, when I want it. Just take a pill and close my eyes. I can’t stand the thought of you trapped in this house for the next four, six, twelve months, however long it takes, watching me slowly waste away. And my mom … at least with my dad it was quick, he didn’t suffer. I don’t want to suffer, Mara.”

  “But you’re giving up!” Her anger boiled over from within. All the sadness and hurt that she had suppressed over the last few months erupted without warning. Her logical senses abandoned her.

  “I can’t do it, Henry! You didn’t want treatment, fine. I accepted that, tried to make the best of the time we have. But now you want to cut it even shorter! And I have no say in it, no control over any of it. What am I supposed to do?”

  He sat with her anger for a long while, watching the fire flicker as it slowly reduced the logs to ashes.

  “I’m sorry, Amara. I’m sorry that I can’t make it better, that I put you through this. I’m angry too, beyond angry, I’m furious. It’s unfair!” A spark flickered inside of him and quickly faded into dejection. “But it takes too much energy for me to be angry anymore, and I can feel myself losing what little I have left.”

  Amara reached out to him as though he were already slipping away. She noticed how tightly she'd grasped his forearm and forced her fingers to relax.

  “Some days I can’t think, and the words don’t come out right. I don’t want to lose myself. This thing … this cancer …” he corrected, forcing himself to name his demons aloud. “It will kill me, but I won’t let it take me. I know it’s hard, but I need you to hear this now, while I can still make these decisions clearly. I can’t let it take me …” His sentence faded away, like a wisp of smoke wafting through the chimney, carrying her anger along it.

  Searching his sunken face, Amara caught a glimpse of the flickering spark that had captivated her so intensely on their first date. If only she could reignite that spark in him as he had so innocently done in her, and build that fight and fury to be with the one you love.

  She studied his face more closely, this time seeing the true depth of his despair. He knew as well as she that his light would inevitably fade, no matter how hard she tried to fuel it. His wish, as she finally understood in that moment, was simply to burn out brightly, like a star exploding into blackness, instead of allowing himself to waste away slowly. In light of this startling realization, who was she to deny him such a heartfelt request?

  Amara grazed the side of his face with her hand, forcing herself to hold his gaze so as not to lose him.

  “I will help you,” she said finally. “On one condition.”

  Henry followed her intently. “What is it?”

  “Your birthday is next month. I want to celebrate at least one of them with you. ”

  Henry dropped his shoulders in relief. For the first time in months, Amara thought she saw a glimmer of hope in Henry’s face.

  “I’ll give you more if I can,” he promised.

  *16*

  The waiting room outside the oncology suite at Inland Hospital was plastered with shiny baubles and holiday decorations. A strand of multi-colored lights framing the receptionist’s window cast a cheery glow into the otherwise sterile fluorescent light. Amara sat stiffly on the edge of her seat next to Henry with her hand grasped securely between his own. His knee bounced uncontrollably with a small tremor. Emily paced a ten-foot loop to the fish tank in the corner and back to them. Nobody had spoken for the entirety of their hour-long drive. Since the only hospital in Bellingham had restrictions regarding life-ending practices due to their religious affiliations, Henry was forced to look farther south to a small community hospital in Anacortes to proceed with his plan.

  Emily finally stopped pacing and came to an abrupt halt in front of Henry’s chair. She fidgeted with the wool scarf around her neck. Looking at Henry directly, she spoke with a hushed but forceful tone. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  Henry sighed wearily. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Because it’s not too late to change your mind,” interrupted Emily.

  “I know. And yes, this is what I want to do.” He focused the last of his energy to make his voice sound stronger than he felt. “We already talked about this, Mom. Do we have to talk about it here?” Henry scanned the waiting room and was thankful to find it largely empty except for the plastic snowmen that lined the walls.

  Amara shifted uncomfortably next to him.

  “I know … I thought it was just talk, just your way of coping with it all. But actually being here, with those forms, is different than just talking about it. This is a huge decision! And I’m not sure I can do it. I’m sorry Henry, I just can’t.”

  Emily practically collapsed into the chair on the other side of Henry and buried her face in her hands. Sniffling, she dabbed under her eyes with her scarf.

  Henry rested a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, I need you. The doctor won’t sign it unless I have two witnesses.”

  Amara sensed the desperation rising in Henry’s voice. She swallowed hard but the lump in her throat wouldn’t clear. She felt every bit of Emily’s hesitancy, the same resistance that balled up inside her gut. But she also heard Henry’s desperate plea. She pressed back against the wall, hoping to disappear behind the cheery paper snowmen.

  A nurse broke the tension as she entered the waiting room from a side door behind the reception desk. She waved them all back through another door and ushered them into the first counseling room on the right.

  The doctor entered shortly behind them and gestured for them all to take their seats at the table. He was a nimble man with kind eyes and a spritely bounce in his step. His small stature and button nose only added to his already elfish presence. He extended his hand to Henry and int
roduced himself as Dr. Kirpa.

  “So, Henry, tell me why you’re here,” he said.

  Henry silently pushed the stack of forms across the table.

  Dr. Kirpa looked them over thoroughly with a solemn expression.

  “This is a serious choice you’re making. Are you positive this is what you want to do?”

  Henry nodded stiffly, swallowed, and forced himself to make words. “Yes,” was all he managed.

  Dr. Kirpa skimmed the papers some more. “You need two other people to sign this with you, besides a doctor. Do you have that?”

  Henry glanced at his mother and Amara in turn, searching both of their faces for support. Amara smiled weakly with reassurance.

  “Alright then. Legally, I have to ask you some specific questions before we sign anything official.” He looked for Henry’s consent before proceeding.

  “Are you here of your own wishes?”

  “Yes,” replied Henry stoically.

  “And you have a qualifying diagnosis, meaning you are terminally ill?” It came out sounding more like a fact than a question.

  Emily sucked in sharply to stifle her tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she interjected, “I don’t think I can listen to this. It was bad enough the first time listening to the doctors explain that my son has cancer! I can’t do this again.” Her last words were washed away by the tears that poured out of her.

  Henry squeezed her hand tightly.

  Emily brushed his cheek lovingly. “Henry, I respect your choice, if that’s really what you decide. I’ll sign whatever, just don’t make me sit here and listen to you talk about killing yourself.”

  “End of life plans,” Amara corrected quietly from across the table. They were hollow words, she knew, but she clung to any sense of rationality she could find in the situation.

  “Legally, he needs you in the room when he signs.” Dr. Kirpa said as he passed her a box of tissues. “If you don’t want to proceed, you can let me know at any point.”

  Henry tightened his grip on his mom’s hand and looked at her expectantly. Emily bowed her head and wiped her eyes but remained seated.

  The doctor took his cue to proceed. After another half an hour of torturously reviewing Henry’s initial brain scans, tests, necessary consultations, psychological assessments, and advanced directives, Dr. Kirpa finally reached his final question.

  “Okay, now I want to preface this last question by telling you that this document will only provide you access to the necessary medications. That doesn’t mean that you have to take them. At any point in this process, if you decide this is no longer what you want, you have the right to change your mind. If it is your decision to proceed, you can print on the top line, sign below, initial here.” Dr. Kirpa highlighted multiple blank lines on the form. “And sign again at the bottom. Your witnesses sign below in the box.”

  Henry took the pen in his right hand and sealed his decision with a series of swift movements. He passed the pen to his mom, who stared suspiciously at it as if she expected it to bite her.

  Cautiously, she pinched the pen between her fingers and scribbled a quick swirl across the page. Before the pen even hit the table, Emily was out of her seat and through the door to the hallway. A loud wail trailed back through the doorway as it closed behind her.

  Amara picked the pen off the table. Her heart raced, and she thought she might pass out. Was she really going to allow this to happen? The pen sat poised on the last empty line. She thought about the promises she made to Henry on the couch a few weeks ago, how he struggled to find his words, how his light was already starting to flicker. She’d promised she would help him. Looking at Henry she saw the weariness pooling in dark circles under his eyes. His strong frame seemed fragile and small. This is what he wants, she reminded herself. Steadying her trembling hand, Amara signed her name on the bottom line.

  *17*

  At the end of a long, tedious day, Nathan stepped out of the cramped office building and locked the door behind him. Mariner’s Yachts, the boat dealership for which he worked, had established itself in a repurposed storage space at the end of the pier between the yacht club and a strip of dive-y sailors’ bars. Nathan had been employed here for nearly four years, with the help of his father’s staunch connection to its proprietor.

  His boss, Sal, was a grungy mariner and experienced engineer who was fluent in boat diagnostics and repair, a skill that translated poorly to real-life interpersonal communication. Sal had spent the first few years teaching Nathan his vast repertoire of mechanical knowledge, priming Nathan to become a reliable replacement mechanic whenever he deigned to retire. Recently though, Sal had taken to pushing Nathan into more of the sales aspect of the business. Whether this decision stemmed from his confidence in Nathan as a salesman or his own increasingly hermitic tendencies, Nathan couldn’t be sure. Either way, he took whatever opportunities Sal would afford him to learn something new.

  Nathan strode across the gravel lot and through the rows of towering ships parked on their trailers outside the building. The wide hulls loomed high overhead, as if they were watching his movements with imposing indifference. He glanced back over his shoulder to re-check the lock, then hopped into the cab of his truck and headed home.

  Entering the apartment, the scent of perfume and hairspray accosted his nostrils and mingled sweetly as they wafted out of the bathroom. Typical, he thought. He didn’t understand why Cece was wasting so much time fancying herself for a dinner date with her own parents, who were anxious to see their eldest daughter one last time before her pregnancy came to full term. Nathan made no comment, however, knowing better than to question the motives of his pregnant fiancée.

  Nathan had learned more about Cece during her eight months of pregnancy than he had in all of the last five years of dating. This was aided, of course, by the fact that they were now living together the majority of the week in his tiny apartment. Since Cece couldn’t get out of her lease for another six months, she’d left a small collection of her things in her apartment, most of which were seasonal items from her excessive wardrobe that she couldn’t fit into Nathan’s closet no matter how unnaturally she tried to configure them. Occasionally, she still spent a night or two a week with her roommates in her old apartment watching entertainment news and furtively binge-eating a large meat-lover’s pizza by herself – a habit that she tried earnestly to hide from Nathan. Thankfully, this routine created some pretense of conventionality for the sake of Nathan’s traditionalist parents.

  Beyond these secret acts of gluttony, Cece had settled herself fairly comfortably in Nathan’s humble space. He even cleared two of the large drawers in the bathroom for her beauty supplies. He originally thought this gesture to be quite generous; however, after witnessing the innumerable bottles of creams, lotions, and toners overflowing from Cece’s boxes, he thought he might eventually need to build another cabinet entirely.

  After Cece had finished high school, her parents moved to a more rural suburban area south of town to fulfill their life-long dream of managing a quaint family farm. Nathan had even heard them explain, more than once, their plans to raise a whole flock of quails with the intent of selling their eggs at the local farmers’ market. They were the type of couple who aged together into nearly perfect reflections of each other, down to the direction that their coarse, shoulder-length grey hair curled around their ears. Nathan was fairly positive they even shared the same second-hand clothes. Hal and Camilla Jones were, in blatant terms, the most stereotypical, granola-crunching hippies imaginable, which was a bold claim given the demographics of their surrounding community.

  Their daughter, on the other hand, was currently engrossed in the task of applying a third layer of thick mascara in a vain attempt to fuse her false lashes to the real ones underneath. Watching this, Nathan couldn’t help but feel that they shared a mutual sense of disappointment in the eyes of their respective parents. Nathan rolled his eyes as he watched Cece’s reflection in the bathroom mirror.
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br />   “Cece, we need to get going,” he called as he headed out to the living room. “Your parents are waiting for us.”

  Cecelia yelled from the bathroom, “Five more minutes! I just need to finish my hair.”

  More like twenty, Nathan thought to himself sardonically. He strolled over to the fridge and plucked a cold beer from the bottom shelf before flopping down on the couch to wait.

  Forty-five minutes, four outfits, and two beers later, Nathan and Cece finally rushed out of the apartment and into the elevator. Nathan hurriedly pushed the buttons, and the elevator began a sluggish descent down to the parking garage. After heaving Cece into the passenger seat and helping her stretch the buckle around her ever-growing midsection, Nathan quickly trotted around the tail-end of the truck and flung himself into the driver’s seat. The engine cranked loudly into gear. For fear of Cece wavering yet again about her current shoe choice, Nathan forced the vehicle quickly out of the garage and onto the road, barreling toward the highway with arguably excessive ferocity.

  A full moon blazed in the dark sky, partially concealed behind a thick veil of fog. Nathan flipped on the headlights as the blanket of white mist settled around the cab.

  No sooner had they turned onto the highway when Cece began to fret.

  “Is this dress okay? It’s so long. I think the pattern is too busy. Maybe I should have worn the black one. Black is more slimming, right?”

  “You look beautiful, Cecelia. Absolutely radiant,” Nathan assured her. “Besides, you would have been freezing in the black one. You know how cold your parents’ house is. It’s like they don’t believe in turning on the heat.”

  “You’re right,” Cece reluctantly agreed. “Maybe I should have grabbed a different sweater, a heavier one,” she wondered to no one in particular.

  “You look great. I’m sure it will be fine,” Nathan reassured her once again.

  Cece settled for the compliment but continued to fuss with her skirt for a few more minutes regardless. Then she started squirming against the constraining cross strap of her seatbelt, unable to find a comfortable configuration against her belly. Eventually, she slipped the strap behind her back and changed subjects. “Did you remember the presents? I don’t think we’ll see my parents again before Christmas.”