“I want to fucking die.”
There was no rage or sorrow. He was quite matter of fact; the plainest of English. I heard the level of exacerbation from someone trying to convey that he was ready to another who wasn’t dying. He was way past his expiration date. He had lived years beyond his prime. His long, Santa-beard was only one of the physical features of an old, white man who was done. His gaunt, skeletal body was another. Vietnam had prepared him. Traveling the earth on his own terms had equipped him for this journey. Fear was barely detectable. This was a rare virtue to find in the dying. Who wouldn’t be afraid of the unknown?
His only fear was of drowning: in his own pulmonary fluids. It’s what initially brought him into the emergency department. The decades of smoking, Agent Orange, and the smog of the underdeveloped countries he had journeyed finally called his hand. Lung cancer and emphysema was a full house not many could beat. And he was ready to fold before they had him admitted.
Death was an enigma. And he was primed to explore this world, free of the constant ringing in his ears from the artillery that had left its mark. The weight loss, the shortness of breath, the dizziness–all those things his wife had tried to explain so that I could understand his request seemed superfluous. She didn’t need to bother. I got him the moment we met.
He was salty like a sailor. He was almost cartoon-like in his muster. This was a man who would have driven me crazy had he been a relative or a lover. But he was someone you could never forget, for better or worse. He wasn’t into ceremony, and he loved his grandchild and even the woman who refused to leave his side and made excuses for him when he was an ass. But none of it was enough for him to want to stay here one moment longer. He was the captain of his ship and he was ready to let his body sink into that great abyss.
This was captivity. This was the Viet Cong that he had eluded. This was insane and made no sense to his brain, still astute despite the pain killers and benzos which hospice handed out. In his viewpoint, this was madness. How dare I question his sanity?
Actually, I never had. His was one of the most rational of intellects I had ever met, trapped in such a wild, decaying body. But the law made me–it forced the other medical experts and me to question his thoughts. We three were tasked with the final decision to determine his competency. If he wanted to die at a time of his choosing, did he in fact have that right under our laws?
Or should he go drink a bottle of Benadryl, as his primary doctor had instructed after telling him he would not help in his quest for a peaceful death.
Our naivety and arrogance were beyond annoying for a man like him. Why should he need to explain himself to anyone? He was ready to fucking die. And I decided to help him.
He deserved an honorable discharge.
Image: Pixabay.com
