Endings
by Susan Booker
The nebuliser whirred beside the bed, a soporific, gentle vibration. Jan looked almost peaceful when sleeping, her features relaxed and soft, the destruction and decay hidden by the sedative effects of the fentanyl. The dichotomy of the two versions of his wife challenged Gordon’s acceptance that Jan only had weeks left, and not the lifetime that they had planned for. He stood by the bed for a moment, wondering whether he should wake her. For her to pass in her sleep would not be the worst thing, given that the painful disintegration of her being was now inevitable. That a once vibrant person, who had filled his world, was now a crumpled husk was beyond cruel. Gordon had never envisaged himself in the role of a carer, but he had to keep going, for her. He pushed aside the multitude of pill boxes as he placed the cup of tea down on the bedside table.
“Cup of tea for you, love.”
Jan stirred, and Gordon could see her summoning the strength to open her eyes. She blinked several times. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”
“Just gone eleven. I’ll get lunch on soon. Try to have a sip of your tea.”
Gordon padded out of the room, his slippers barely making a sound against the pile of carpet. Leaving the bedroom door open a crack, he retreated downstairs.
The trip to the doctor, followed by the pharmacy, had taken a toll on them both. The kitchen reflected the exhaustion of yesterday. Crockery piled high from a rushed lunch the day before. Glasses stacked, precariously close to toppling. The pan was crusted with the remnants of chicken soup. Gordon hadn’t got around to tipping out the abandoned cups of tea from earlier.
He reached over to the radio, hoping that the chatter of the morning show would provide some company.
“And now over to Jemima for a rundown of the events going on over the weekend—” Click. Gordon didn’t need reminding of what he was going to miss. Turning the hot water on, he reached over and picked up the pan.
“Cup of tea for you, love.”
Jan stirred, and Gordon could see her summoning the strength to open her eyes. She blinked several times. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”
“Just gone eleven. I’ll get lunch on soon. Try to have a sip of your tea.”
Gordon padded out of the room, his slippers barely making a sound against the pile of carpet. Leaving the bedroom door open a crack, he retreated downstairs.
The trip to the doctor, followed by the pharmacy, had taken a toll on them both. The kitchen reflected the exhaustion of yesterday. Crockery piled high from a rushed lunch the day before. Glasses stacked, precariously close to toppling. The pan was crusted with the remnants of chicken soup. Gordon hadn’t got around to tipping out the abandoned cups of tea from earlier.
He reached over to the radio, hoping that the chatter of the morning show would provide some company.
“And now over to Jemima for a rundown of the events going on over the weekend—” Click. Gordon didn’t need reminding of what he was going to miss. Turning the hot water on, he reached over and picked up the pan.
“Lunch is ready, love.” Gordon pushed the table across the room, the wheels nestling under the bed. “You’ll need to sit up for this.”
Jan’s arms were swamped by her nightgown. Her chest crackled as she took a deep breath to power her shuffle up the bed. The huge effort resulted in a minuscule amount of movement. She remained weighed down by the covers, as if in a straitjacket, her head barely making an impression in the mass of pillows.
“Let me help you.” Gordon wrapped his arms around his wife’s tiny frame and hoisted her upright. He perched on the end of the bed, keen not to encroach, his weight causing the bed to heave in his direction.
“Had any more thoughts about yesterday?” he asked.
“There was a lot to take in. I know I said to the doctor I wanted to go ahead, but I am not so sure now that we are home. It seems wrong somehow, going before I am meant to.”
Gordon waited to see if Jan had any more to offer. The bed heaved again as he shifted positions.
“It’s all legal and above board, love. The law is in place for exactly your situation, to help you with your pain, to make it easier at the end.”
Jan didn’t answer, and her crackling breathing slowed. Gordon gently rose from the bed. He took the unfinished cup of tea with him and moved the ham sandwich to the dresser. He shuffled out, leaving the door ajar.
Cold tea swished down the plughole for the second time that day. Gordon’s sandwich lay uneaten on the dining table. Sitting down, he pushed the sandwich aside, instead leaning over to pick up the black locked box that they had collected from the pharmacy. It was lighter than he had anticipated. Jan had entrusted him with the key when they got back yesterday; she would only forget where she had put it. Inside the box was a small bag of powder, together with the long list of instructions and disclaimers that the doctor had run through with them both. The doctor had focused on the practical aspects of Jan’s options—assisted dying was only bringing forward the inevitable. Gordon was not sure he could have coped with expressions of sympathy from someone who barely knew them. Jan was right that they had a lot to take in; they both had decisions to make.
Jan’s arms were swamped by her nightgown. Her chest crackled as she took a deep breath to power her shuffle up the bed. The huge effort resulted in a minuscule amount of movement. She remained weighed down by the covers, as if in a straitjacket, her head barely making an impression in the mass of pillows.
“Let me help you.” Gordon wrapped his arms around his wife’s tiny frame and hoisted her upright. He perched on the end of the bed, keen not to encroach, his weight causing the bed to heave in his direction.
“Had any more thoughts about yesterday?” he asked.
“There was a lot to take in. I know I said to the doctor I wanted to go ahead, but I am not so sure now that we are home. It seems wrong somehow, going before I am meant to.”
Gordon waited to see if Jan had any more to offer. The bed heaved again as he shifted positions.
“It’s all legal and above board, love. The law is in place for exactly your situation, to help you with your pain, to make it easier at the end.”
Jan didn’t answer, and her crackling breathing slowed. Gordon gently rose from the bed. He took the unfinished cup of tea with him and moved the ham sandwich to the dresser. He shuffled out, leaving the door ajar.
Cold tea swished down the plughole for the second time that day. Gordon’s sandwich lay uneaten on the dining table. Sitting down, he pushed the sandwich aside, instead leaning over to pick up the black locked box that they had collected from the pharmacy. It was lighter than he had anticipated. Jan had entrusted him with the key when they got back yesterday; she would only forget where she had put it. Inside the box was a small bag of powder, together with the long list of instructions and disclaimers that the doctor had run through with them both. The doctor had focused on the practical aspects of Jan’s options—assisted dying was only bringing forward the inevitable. Gordon was not sure he could have coped with expressions of sympathy from someone who barely knew them. Jan was right that they had a lot to take in; they both had decisions to make.
Gordon climbed the stairs with renewed vigor. By the time he had reached the landing, his pulse had quickened, and his muscles twitched as if surprised by the sudden burst of energy. He pushed open the bedroom door and walked over to the bed. Gordon’s resolution faltered, like a flaccid birthday balloon, dwindling to nothing. Jan lay amongst the covers, a gentle sigh exuding from her, responding to the noise of Gordon’s entrance, but the sound was insufficient to fully rouse her. He crumpled into the armchair, as tears spilled from his eyes, falling uncontrolled, dappling his trousers. Gordon struggled to recall the last time that he had cried, perhaps at his mother’s funeral, 5 years ago, and before that, when his beloved childhood cat, Oscar, had died. Stoicism was a highly regarded virtue in McDowall men. He had been embarrassed at the time, his tears a sign of vulnerability. At least now, no one was there to witness his outpouring of despair apart from Jan, who was still in a drug-induced sleep.
Gordon remained in the armchair, struggling to compose himself, extracting a clean handkerchief from his pocket to dry off his face and dab his trousers. His breathing slowly returned to normal. Calmer now, he resolved that he would rest in the comfort of his wife’s armchair until he was ready.
Out of the bedroom window, Gordon could see streetlights blinking, signaling dusk. Four hours had passed, some of which he had spent dozing, emotionally spent. He rose from the chair to close the curtains. Despite the lowering light, he could still see across to the mountains, the TV aerial lit up on the range. In the distance, greyish clouds gathered, suggesting the possibility of rain later. The thick curtains easily pulled closed, shutting out the dwindling daylight.
The afternoon nap had settled Gordon’s nerves. He was prepared. He shuffled round to "his" side of the bed--after he had stubbed his toe on the commode for the fifth time, they both realised it was time for him to relocate to the spare bedroom. He took hold of the spare pillow, unconsciously testing its resistance between his palms as he moved back around the bed. Gordon observed Jan for a moment while he steeled himself. Her haggard body had been stripped by the cancer, leaving a shell of her former self. He could see the blue of her veins through her translucent, paper-thin skin. Her paleness gave her an ephemeral quality, as if she had already passed. The cancer couldn’t take away any more of her—there was nothing left to sustain life.
Gordon had felt he should mark the occasion with a few words, but now that the time had come, he was worried that even whispering to Jan could cause her to stir. He grasped the sides of the pillow with both hands, the clamminess of his palms absorbed by the fabric. He leant forward and pushed. Gordon had expected a struggle or at least some writhing as he smothered the life out of his beloved, but there was nothing; the mercy killing of his wife was oddly anticlimactic. In a single moment, both devastating and perfunctory.
Gordon released the pressure on the pillow and collapsed back into the armchair. In all honesty, Gordon thought that Jan looked remarkably similar to how she had looked just minutes ago. Although cliched, it was rather like a draft blowing out a candle, so frail Jan’s connection with the world had been. He took one last look at his cherished wife, unplugged the nebuliser, straightened the bed covers and closed the bedroom door.
Back in the kitchen, Gordon lumbered over to the kettle and flicked the switch; nothing else to do but wait until the kettle boiled. The black box lay open on the table; the packet discarded in the bin. The tea required a little more stirring than usual. Gordon pondered how he was going to get the sludgy liquid down, but surely it could not be as difficult as what he had just done. Methodically, he wiped down the kitchen side and dining room table, noting to himself as he returned the sponge to the draining board, that this was all rather pointless, but he wouldn’t want to leave a dirty house; Jan had always maintained very high standards, and he would hate to let her down now. Finally, he checked that the back door was unlocked, ready for the nurse’s arrival tomorrow morning.
At the top of the stairs, Gordon carried on to the spare bedroom. He carefully placed the mug of tea on a coaster on the bedside table, the coaster prompting memories of a holiday they had shared in North Wales some years ago. He slid out of his slippers and pulled back the bedcovers. For a moment, he wondered what the protocol was; did one get into pajamas or remain dressed, or did it even matter? Gordon decided that he would stay as he was given that the tea was just about ready to drink.
Gordon remained in the armchair, struggling to compose himself, extracting a clean handkerchief from his pocket to dry off his face and dab his trousers. His breathing slowly returned to normal. Calmer now, he resolved that he would rest in the comfort of his wife’s armchair until he was ready.
Out of the bedroom window, Gordon could see streetlights blinking, signaling dusk. Four hours had passed, some of which he had spent dozing, emotionally spent. He rose from the chair to close the curtains. Despite the lowering light, he could still see across to the mountains, the TV aerial lit up on the range. In the distance, greyish clouds gathered, suggesting the possibility of rain later. The thick curtains easily pulled closed, shutting out the dwindling daylight.
The afternoon nap had settled Gordon’s nerves. He was prepared. He shuffled round to "his" side of the bed--after he had stubbed his toe on the commode for the fifth time, they both realised it was time for him to relocate to the spare bedroom. He took hold of the spare pillow, unconsciously testing its resistance between his palms as he moved back around the bed. Gordon observed Jan for a moment while he steeled himself. Her haggard body had been stripped by the cancer, leaving a shell of her former self. He could see the blue of her veins through her translucent, paper-thin skin. Her paleness gave her an ephemeral quality, as if she had already passed. The cancer couldn’t take away any more of her—there was nothing left to sustain life.
Gordon had felt he should mark the occasion with a few words, but now that the time had come, he was worried that even whispering to Jan could cause her to stir. He grasped the sides of the pillow with both hands, the clamminess of his palms absorbed by the fabric. He leant forward and pushed. Gordon had expected a struggle or at least some writhing as he smothered the life out of his beloved, but there was nothing; the mercy killing of his wife was oddly anticlimactic. In a single moment, both devastating and perfunctory.
Gordon released the pressure on the pillow and collapsed back into the armchair. In all honesty, Gordon thought that Jan looked remarkably similar to how she had looked just minutes ago. Although cliched, it was rather like a draft blowing out a candle, so frail Jan’s connection with the world had been. He took one last look at his cherished wife, unplugged the nebuliser, straightened the bed covers and closed the bedroom door.
Back in the kitchen, Gordon lumbered over to the kettle and flicked the switch; nothing else to do but wait until the kettle boiled. The black box lay open on the table; the packet discarded in the bin. The tea required a little more stirring than usual. Gordon pondered how he was going to get the sludgy liquid down, but surely it could not be as difficult as what he had just done. Methodically, he wiped down the kitchen side and dining room table, noting to himself as he returned the sponge to the draining board, that this was all rather pointless, but he wouldn’t want to leave a dirty house; Jan had always maintained very high standards, and he would hate to let her down now. Finally, he checked that the back door was unlocked, ready for the nurse’s arrival tomorrow morning.
At the top of the stairs, Gordon carried on to the spare bedroom. He carefully placed the mug of tea on a coaster on the bedside table, the coaster prompting memories of a holiday they had shared in North Wales some years ago. He slid out of his slippers and pulled back the bedcovers. For a moment, he wondered what the protocol was; did one get into pajamas or remain dressed, or did it even matter? Gordon decided that he would stay as he was given that the tea was just about ready to drink.
Susan Booker is a passionate writer, creating works in a range of genres from social justice to historical fiction. Most recently, Booker presented a short story, "Uprooted," at the HerStory Festival in Sydney on the struggles of living with dementia. Some of Booker's stories are based on her experiences working in a hospice as a teenager. She lives in Brisbane with her family and a multitude of rescue animals.