A friend ended her life.
The verb in that sentence braked me. “Killed herself” suggests a crime. “Committed suicide” evokes officials with stamps. (Commit is a jut-jawed, no-nonsense, humorless verb.) “Did herself in,” “called it quits,” mar solemnity with bravado. Our friend left life as she’d led it, with dignity, intention, deliberation. She was not, as we say, “dying” (though aren’t we all?), fast-forwarding herself through a dire diagnosis. She might have lived for years, even decades. Yes, she ached – in body, with the ailments of age; in mind, with loneliness for her lifelong mate – but aches “come with the territory,” no? Lives are seldom “good till the last drop.”
She chose to go. Ever punctual, she checked her watch and it was time. A longtime advocate of “death with dignity,” she’d thought about it, knew how. Her arrangements, I’ve no doubt, were meticulous. Switzerland would be the place, in a facility dedicated to that purpose. In the land of the free, we are not free to exit when we please. Life – for humans in America – means a life sentence. (Dogs we euthanize without flinching, Henry reminds me. Animals we eat we’re supposed to slaughter mercifully, though that sounds an oxymoron.)
Death is a worn-out topic, goading even grunters into unwonted – and unwanted – garrulity. The ancients did it justice; we’ve been panting, stuttering, after them ever since. One’s freedom to exit life on one’s own terms hardly needs debating. The Roman Catholic church, which I revere, is all wet on this one. God does not oppose suicide: He “gave his only begotten son,” if I remember right.
There’s nothing to say when a friend dies, yet an urge to – to recall scraps of time together, pour platitudes. This is because death, ready or not, shocks. Non-existence, for humans, is barely conceivable. Our friend was here, at the other end of an email, available to “bump into” one day, and now she’s not? We blink, shake our heads: What gives?
Self-removal redoubles our confusion. Right or wrong? Kind or insulting? If we’ve enjoyed a party, do we leave it early? Would I, under similar circumstances (for all moral thinking reverts to ourselves), do the same?
It’s complicated – for me, at least. My friend had neither kids nor living spouse, but if you do, aren’t you obliged to beg permission? I was taught to never leave a gathering without saying thank-you and goodbye. I believe in that.
Declare your departure, though, and suddenly everybody’s pawing to keep you. Our friends furnish our minds and we resent rearrangements: we want that chair there even if we never sit in it. I recall my friends more frequently than I greet them. I feel you out there, my crowd of angels: don’t die on me, please.
Who, on the other hand, doesn’t hate causing trouble? Witless I’m worthless – and a bore! – please give me the heave-ho. My documents forbid resuscitation, but that’s the least of it. Don’t lock me in my cell – leave it unlatched. Don’t I deserve time off for good behavior!
I look forward, as my friend did, to that day in the land of freedom when we are free to die; when we can board the train to eternity, waving goodbye, having enjoyed our stay; when death opens as an easy passage, not an heroic feat. I’d prefer to “go out like a light,” intelligence intact, not to tire with interminable farewells – but that’s not my choice. I’d like, if that day comes, to tiptoe into the next room, not book a flight to Switzerland. It feels right – and my right.