The disease also made me practical about the health and future of my family. At the end of January I drove Abby to the airport for her trip back to San Francisco where she was studying. I had never been able to go to the airport before with her because it always made me too sad to say goodbye. But now it was like I was on a mission. It became the first step in getting Abby back to a normal life away from me. It became so important to me to make sure my daughters were settled and had a plan. I needed them to have a future laid out for them because I didn’t have one anymore. I didn’t want them home around me and my illness. So when I took Abby to the airport this time I didn’t cry. I was happy she had a future and a lot to do ahead of her.
When
Alex’s father was close to death he asked me when we were flying back to New
Zealand. He held on for two more days until he knew his granddaughters were on
a plane leaving England. Then, knowing they would not be disturbed by this last
scene, he was able to die in peace while we were still in flight. I understood
that. I wanted Abby to be away from me so if anything went wrong in the next
couple of months she didn’t have to see it. And of course the same was true for
Charlotte. I was looking forward to her starting her life in Wellington in
February. I didn’t want her to see me sorting out my will, or leaving emails to
be posted if I died in hospital. Those were things I had to do but I wanted to
do them alone and if I wanted to scream while I was doing them then so be it. I
wouldn’t have to pretend to be cheerful or maintain any decorum once the
children were gone.
I had been thinking a lot
about whether it was better to die unexpectedly or not. I used to always think
falling under a bus and dying immediately would be preferable to knowing for
months you were going to die. I was rigidly stuck to that philosophy especially
after watching documentaries on assisted suicide. I couldn’t think of anything
worse than the choice between a lingering, painful humiliating death and making
a close relative overdose me with morphine. Now the funny thing was, while I
sat eating a family-sized bar of Cadbury’s chocolate and weighing up the
choices, I changed my mind. I liked that I was planning for my children’s
future, putting things in order and choosing what I wanted to do with my
remaining time. If you worked really hard then one day got hit by a bus, you
wouldn’t have the luxury of spending your final time on earth how you wanted.
Granted, most of my time was spent either at the hospital or consumed with
thoughts of dying but in the other moments I was fulfilling myself emotionally.
I was skyping my family (who I would never in a million years be in such
constant contact with), I was savouring every moment with my children, I was leaving
behind a journal to bore future generations of my family with, and I was eating
trailer loads of chocolate. I didn’t really care if I gained weight, looked
like crap or dressed badly. It was like I was given a celebrity pass to do
whatever the hell I liked. I no longer felt the need to be polite. I no longer
wanted to window shop my life away, I wanted to smash and grab. I wouldn’t
entertain time-wasters, arrogant pricks or sales people. Dying was a great
excuse to say exactly what you felt. But of course I didn’t. No one can change
that much. I would carry on living how I always did, I would just pay attention
to the good stuff a lot more. When the time came that I was too weak to get out
of bed, I could only hope I didn’t linger. I didn’t want to be an ungainly
corpse sitting in bed wasting away while everyone waited for my last breath.
Conversely I didn’t want to burden a family member with upping the morphine to
give me a slightly more graceful exit. If only there was a poisoned apple in
real life. I wouldn’t mind dying like Snow White, even if a charming prince
wouldn’t be able to wake me.
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