My father discovered his cancer when I was in secondary school. After a number of months of a chronic lung infection that would not clear, my mother insisted he go to the physician. When they returned she was stricken and pale and he came in nearly unaffected. He never spoke of his illness. Instead he retreated to his study as his disease ate at his body. He refused treatment even as my mother vehemently begged him to do something to make himself better. It only took two months before I was called home from school with the news that it was only a matter of hours before he would be gone.
He was on his bed with the sheet pulled up to his neck. He'd lost a great deal of weight and his cheeks and eyes had sunken in to his face and his breathing with sharp and wheezing. My mother sat at his side with tears in her eyes and a basket filled with medical equipment that kept him alive for minutes at a time.
It was humiliating for him and for me. This man was respected and a giant in his waking life and was reduced to a child in his last minutes. I didn't want that. I didn't ever want someone to see me as feeble as I saw my father. It was only a matter of getting John on board.
Once the dizziness calmed, I was able to get myself to my chair and stabilize my symptoms long enough to explain myself to John. It was critical important that he was able to assist. I couldn't do this without him. As soon as his door opened, I called him over. From the puffiness of his undereye and lethargic gait I could tell he'd been crying.
Wonderful.
"What is it?" he said.
"I've decided."
He sat down in front of me and pretended to not know what I referring to. "What do you mean?"
"How I want to die. No treatments. On my own terms."
The vagueness of the statements was intentional. John, the physician, knew exactly what I meant. John, the friend, would try to parse out how to convince me otherwise. He was emotional. It might take some convincing to get him to procure me the pills.
"Sherlock…no. I can't.
He understood. "Yes. That is what I wish to do. Can you get me the appropriate supplies?"
His lips pull down. Eyelids droop. Sadness. Just what I feared.
"You won't even look into treatment?"
"To what end?"
"A few more weeks. Maybe months." His tone was desperate, grasping at straws. I feared he may not be able to separate the medicine from the friendship.
"John, you must listen to me. I've thought about this. My brain is what I have. Without it I am no longer useful. At that point, I wish to end this. Do you understand?"
his face fluctuated between sadness and anger. "When will that be?"
I hope not for a while. My own father was given a matter of weeks and he lived for two months. A month from this doctor could be much longer. There was no use in prognosticating now. "I will work. I was continue as normal. When I can no longer do my work, that is when.
He was still in shock and I presume he would say the same of me. I am sure that he will tell his colleagues that I am speaking of my own death like I would ordering dinner. He will say that I am detached and making decisions without considering the consequences. He will say these things out of grief and fear, not because he thinks that I'm wrong but because he known that I'm right.
"I don't want any suspicions cast upon you," I say. "You will procure the pills but leave them with me. When it is time, I will have you leave the room and take them. You will have no knowledge of what has occurred, is that clear?"
"Sherlock, I should be with you."
"No. Not when I take them. I will do that alone. You will have no knowledge of that. Clear?"
He looked at me with surprise but nodded. "Yes," he said.
A relief. What I was asking of him was illegal and, without me there to protect him, my enemies would use my death to hurt him. I cannot allow that to happen. "That day," I said, "I'd like to be alone."
Eyelids droop further. Sadness returns. "Oh," he said. "I see."
"You will be there. Just you."
I did not want the cadre of people surrounding me like there was with my father. Family, friends, medical personnel were all in the room when he passed. Nearly fifteen people heard him gasp his final breaths. Never for me. John served as support and medical expertise. He was all I needed.
Wrinkling of the eyes. Cheeks rise. Happy. "You sure?" he said. "You want me there?"
"Absolutely."
He tapped at the chair arm to relieve his uncomfortable feelings of having this discussion. "John, will you be able to get the medication today?"
The tapping stopped. "Today?"
"Yes."
"Well," he said, "it's not just sitting out there at the clinic. Let me talk to Sarah. I'm sure we can get it very quickly."
"Good."
We sat in silence for almost a minute as he went to great lengths not to make eye contact. I wanted to return to my work but I could feel the dizziness beginning and I did not want him to see me struggle to walk. I would wait until he was gone.
"I need to go out for a while," he said finally.
Good. There was guilt all over his face but there was little I could say that would make that emotion subside. "I think that's wise."
He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. "I just need some air."
"Take all the time you need. I'll be here."
He was beginning to cry. His bit his lip to stop the flow of tears. "Call me," he said with a croaking voice, "if you need anything."
I lifted the phone from my pocket and waved it towards him.
He began to walk back for an embrace or a physical goodbye but he thought better of it. I'd rather not begin the precedent of hugging and touching as the days wear on.
He shut the door and he is gone.
Alone.
I slowly get up from the chair and my feet are leaden against the ground. With one hand to support me, I stand upright. The room wavers back and forth as I try to propel myself forward. I take one large step and balance myself on the coffee table. Another step and I have reached John's chair. A few more and I am back at my work.
I look down at the case file and force myself to look at it the same way I did yesterday.
The blood spatter that clearly indicates a hit with a blunt object.
The carpet that has been recently vacuumed.
The vase that is missing half of its water due to the growth of the plants inside.
The matchbook that—
That—
The words are lost. I stare at the photograph of the red matchbook and try to think of the words that I want. They are gone. Missing from my mind. I feel my heart pounding as I look at the crime scene and the pictures become more and more blurry with each blink of my eyes.
It's too fast.
I resist the urge to call John. This was only the beginning.
But still…
I want more time.