I scheduled a mercy killing appointment

“I live in hope I can jump before I am pushed.” -Sir Terry Pratchett on the right to die.

Is any life better than any death? Even a life of profound grief and suffering, carrying the guilt of knowing how much of a burden you’ve become to those you love? Should our spirits be kept locked in a feeble corpse until the last drop of blood has dragged to a stop through withered veins? Or should we alone be the judge of what burden we can bear; should our pleading be heard when we reach out in our final hour?

Assisted suicides are illegal where I live. A caring doctor should not go to prison for administering the final cure to his grateful patient. When I asked openly about the option, the hospital staff couldn’t even meet my eyes. They mumbled excuses and aversions as though they were embarrassed. If anyone should be embarrassed, it was me for admitting that all life had value except this one. I was given a long list of exercises and diets and painkillers intended to add a few more months, but no-one pretended it was a cure.

“A full life deserves a full death. I don’t want it to linger on the doorstep. I want it done now. Actually Monday would be better. It’s supposed to rain that day anyway.”

The doctor said it was quite impossible. He left in a huff, promising to return with either a psychologist, or a policeman if I couldn’t be dissuaded. He of all people should understand that the tumor wasn’t in the brain. This decision wasn’t an idle fancy. I wasn’t some teenager declaring that life was pointless after I got dumped. I was at the end of a very long rope, ready for release.

I would have done the deed myself with a gun or a bottle of pills, but I knew my wife would never forgive me in this life or the next. Better it was clean and professional and out of my hands. I sighed and made my way to the door, but Susan, one of the nurses, stopped me. She had a bright and perky energy about her that always lit up the room, but I could could tell by her hushed tone that she understood the gravity of my request.

“Monday.” Just one word. It was enough.

I nodded. I slipped her my business card with my address and mouthed the word ‘thank you’. She returned a tight lipped smile, and we stood staring at each other for a moment. Then she hugged me out of nowhere. I was uncomfortable at first, but I held on anyway. Just so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

At last I pulled away and cleared my throat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to spend the weekend with my wife.”

Of course I didn’t tell my wife about the appointment. This weekend was a celebration of life, and I didn’t want it to be tainted by the unpleasantness to come. We went to the beach on Saturday and dined at a waterside cafe with our feet in the sand. On Sunday we drove up into the mountains to spend time with her family. The word ‘goodbye’ stuck in my throat when we hugged and parted.

The sand doesn’t stick in the hourglass though, and the clouds are already gathering overhead. My wife is sleeping in the bed next to me, but I still haven’t told her. Tomorrow will be Monday, and I trust Susan to meet me soon.

Won’t my wife be surprised when she finds out about the appointment I made for her. With her out of the way, I can really start living again.