Chapters (30)
In school, we had to spend a week working in a nursing home. One afternoon, I sat in a room where old people in wheelchairs gathered to sing. I looked at their faces, and some were joyous, but most were not. And I remember thinking, Not for me. For one thing, I would not have the relief of family visiting; I would be one of those for whom the staff made birthday cards out of construction paper. Apart from that, I have always thought that there can be very good reasons to leave life by your own hand. Without bitterness. We come, and we go. As we should. The earth turns on its creaky old axis and gives what it can and takes back what it must. Why not awaken each morning thinking, It’s a good day to die, and then go about living, if such is our choice. Or fate.
I want to answer Chip’s question honestly, to say that suicide does not seem like a horrible option at all, under certain circumstances. But I am his nurse as well as his friend. I don’t want to influence a decision that must be his own. And so I say, simply, “I might.”
“I’m strongly considering it,” Chip says. “I think you should know that.”
“Yes.”
“Not quite yet,” he says.
“No.”
The rain goes on and on. I think of flowers in their beds, drowning, birds huddled miserably in their nests. Chip leans over to kiss my cheek once, twice. I lie still as stone.
Then, “I guess I should go back to bed,” he says.
“Okay.”
“Thank you, Myra.”
“I … You’re welcome.”
He stands, then grabs for the headboard. Instinctively, I grab for him. “It’s when I stand, sometimes. That’s when it happens. I get dizzy.”
“Does it go away after you’re up for a second?”
“Yeah.”
“It could be your medications. It could be orthostatic hypotension—your pressure drops when you stand up.”
“Why don’t I stop taking them?”
“If you do, you’ll … have some problems.”
He nods. “Yeah. I know.” He sighs heavily. “It’s been so long since I was me.”
He comes around to my side of the bed, stands there. Then he sits down, and I start to sit up.
“Don’t,” he says.
I lie back down, breathe out slowly.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s right. Now close your eyes, would you?”
I close them, hear him turn my bedside light out.
“Good night, Myra.” His voice is so soft.
“Good night.”
He hesitates, and I think that perhaps he’s going to kiss my forehead. But he doesn’t.
And yet he does.