Time Was …

"Sometimes life can seem very cruel. First written (many years after the event) in 2005, it was a way for me to " - Allen Ansell



She looked at me with sorrowful eyes. There was something in them that told me she thought her time was coming to an end and was searching my soul for some confirmation. I glanced away quickly and busied myself with the rake, scratching haphazard lines in the grass and pulling the early fallen leaves into rows of little banks; line after line of gold and hazel on the emerald green lawn.

It was difficult avoiding that eye contact. We had known one another for a lifetime. We had grown to love one another very deeply. She trusted me implicitly. Avoiding this conversation between our eyes made me feel mendacious. It wasn’t a nice feeling.

I glanced at my watch. It was just after two in the afternoon. Our appointment was for half-past-four. How was I going to avoid this silent communication for another two hours?

That’s all it ever would be: Silent. Mainly because most of all she wanted this illness not to exist. Failing that, she would want to have faith it was going to go away. And finally, at the bottom of the pile of deviations from any frank admission, was the hope that the end was still way out of sight - way over the rainbow. It wasn’t. I knew that, and when I once asked her how she felt about it she remained silent, turned, and walked away from me. Not only ignoring my question, but clearly telling me, in her own inimitable way, that she wished the subject never to be raised again.

I honoured her wishes; even on our visits to get the progress of the disease checked out.

I’d bring the cards confirming our next appointment home with me and leave them available for anyone to read, on the kitchen worktop. I didn’t bring them to her attention, knowing she would become aware and on the appointed day would acquiesce. There would be no charade or game play – if for no other reason than because she hadn’t the energy for such things. She would not avoid those appointments; she would meekly place herself within my hands, and let me guide her towards more well-meaning advice as to how the inevitable could be delayed – if at all possible. Until today.

It hurt me greatly: imagining how my life was going to be changed when the time came for her to leave. There was no getting away from it, this illness was terminal. There was no known cure – not anywhere; anywhere in the whole, wide, world.

I wondered how she viewed it? Did she see herself as I thought I might in her position: Hurtling towards a sheet of glass that sympathetically grew thinner day by day, so that, at the appointed time, when she collided with it – her destiny – it would break softly, like a bubble, and let her gently through to the other side?

My raking moved me gradually away from her. When I had moved about fifteen meters, I stopped raking and lifted myself into an upright stance so as to straighten my back. Then I leisurely looked up at the sky whilst slightly arching myself backwards. These actions were all delaying tactics. I would have to look at her eventually. I couldn’t avoid eye contact for ever. When I straightened, I lowered my head so that I would be looking directly at her, and fixed upon my face as natural a smile as I could conjur. She was just sitting there looking at me. I wasn’t sure if she was squinting or pretending to be asleep, but I could see the sparkle of her glassy eyes from between her almost closed eyelids. Her facial expression didn’t change to acknowledge my smile, or for my having looked.

‘I think I’ll go and make a cup of coffee.’ I announced out loud, feeling a little embarrassed.

Again there was no reaction.

The illness had slowed her down. Gone were all signs of her vitality. She didn’t eat at all well; just nibbling at little bits and pieces on her plate, then pushing around the remainder as if she could rearrange it so as to disguise the reality of how much she was leaving. She would look tired all the time, even though she tried to disguise that too. She had done that when I said I was going out to rake the grass: going ahead of me, trying to saunter nonchalantly out of the patio doors with a slight swagger. But I could see that her gait was false - there was a very slight pause between her steps.

Through our years together, she often stayed close by me. We gained great comfort in one another’s companionship. But in the recent weeks, she hardly ever left my side. I wondered if it was because she was fearful of dying somewhere on her own, alone? It was the reason, I supposed, which most explained her behaviour. But I never made comment about it, thinking this to be more kind … to just accept, and to be there for her.

Back inside the kitchen I picked up the kettle and filled it at the tap beneath the window. I could see her in the garden. She had hardly moved. Her head was now just slightly tilted down, and there was no sign her eyes were open - even partly.

Seeing her weakened like that brought me tears, so I feigned a huge sneeze in case she should get up, come indoors, and see my watery eyes. She didn’t come. It was just as well: This time the tears were a little difficult for me to control. Through them, I saw, by the kitchen clock, time had advanced: It was now half-past-three. My stomach turned over, and I felt a rush of adrenaline flush itself through my body as I realised there was only another half-hour before we should leave.

I took our drinks out into the garden, placing the creamy one down beside her. Then I sat on the wall beside her and began sipping my hot, strong coffee.

‘Nearly time to go. We’ll just have these drinks and then get going… Okay?’

She opened her eyes and looked directly at me again - with that look that caused me to avoid her gaze an hour or so ago. This time I didn’t glance away. This time I cowardly smiled at her from behind my cup. She closed her eyes as if simply luxuriating in the warmth of the sun. She didn’t answer. I was certain that she felt her time was coming. She had hardly spoken a word for the entire day. Her condition was much worse.

-----o-----


When we arrived at the clinic, a male receptionist told me to take a seat while he took her into the other room. As they left me she didn’t look around. It was as I knew it would be: acquiescence right to the end. I had brought her here and so she would simply accept that it was what was needed; what was best. Her absolute trust was destroying me inside, and on top of that I was incredibly nervous.

Half-past-four in the afternoon. Only another half-hour and the family would be arriving at home. My two daughters would be getting off the college bus right now, then they'd walk the short distance home from the stop.

The receptionist returned with the surgeon.

‘Would you like to come in, Sir?’

I got up, and walked hesitantly behind her through the doorway not knowing what to expect on the other side.

She was laying on the examination table. A young lady wearing a white coat was gently soothing her shoulder.

‘I thought it would be better for both of you… if you were present.’ He said.

'Yes...' I answered weakly. Not at all sure it would actually be any better - for me.

God, this wasn’t what I had imagined at all!

I wasn’t sure what I had imagined, and now that the moment came when we were both facing this final parting, my mind sought to find reasons why it should be stopped. I walked slowly towards her. Her eyes were fixed upon me. I looked down at my watch again, as if I could find some reason by way of the time to have this thing stopped. It was, however, in the end, just a nervous reaction. We had gone too far along this pathway to stop it now.

When we had discussed this… this euthanasia… I don’t think any of us realised the reality of our coming face to face, second by second, with those final moments before all life would be drained from her body.

-----o-----


He was standing close behind her holding the syringe up to the light. A tiny fountain of crystal drops spurted and sparkled into the air as he adjusted the volume of clear liquid. It was then I realised I had been thinking I could hide behind this man; he would deliver the injection away from my sight and thus obviate me from ever having direct knowledge of her final moments. For another time that afternoon, I found myself seeing cowardice inside of me.

She looked up at me.

As he prepared to inject the liquid, I bent down and placed my hand gently onto her, kissing the top of her head and murmering, 'It'll be over soon, little one.'


Just as I lifted my lips away from her, she momentarily struggled and let out one awful, never to be forgotten … squeak. It is the only word I can find to best describe the sound she made. I shall never forget it; it will always ring in my ears. Just as I will never forget the feeling of her instantly going limp and relaxed beneath my fingers. It was all over so very quickly.  That life, so complex, so intricate, so precious, could be extinguished so easily - like the flick of a switch - was one of the things I learned that afternoon.

As quickly, the tears returned to me. They returned refuelled with all the vitality that she had lost. Great sobs racked and shook my body. I just couldn’t stop them. It was embarrassing. So bad, that they took me into their staff room and gave me a strong cup of sickly-sweet tea.

‘With a dash of whiskey to calm your nerves,’ said the surgeon, kindly.

Eventually I did manage to recover control of myself sufficiently to bid them farewell.

-----o-----


The drive home was through a haze. I probably shouldn’t have been driving. We had been fortunate to find someone so close at hand who would carry out this deed.

I managed the two miles without mishap, and as I locked up the car I could see my eldest daughter looking out of the kitchen window. There was a look of foreboding on her face. I realised that she was looking to see if there was anyone returning with me.

I took a deep breath, and determinedly walked indoors.

My family stood facing me in a line across the Kitchen.

My wife took one look at my red-rimmed eyes and broke down in tears.

The two girls instantly followed suit.

All that I could manage to say was, ‘I’m sorry … but … she … has … gone ....’

We moved together and as a family hugged one another. We were hugging one another in our diminished circle of now just four and blubbing like babies.



-----o-----

EPILOGUE
It was a very long while before my wife and I succumbed to what I now recognise as a somewhat selfish wish and acquired another cat. The children had by then grown into mature adults in homes and family units of their own.  Once again we fell in love with a tiny baby French kitten we named 'Poppy' and couldn't wait to take her into our home, and, of course, our once more diminished family - of just us two.  We will never forgot 'Bows' who will always have a special place in our hearts. Bless her.



© Allen Ansell 2023