Several years ago, my friend X killed herself, taking care to make her death appear natural. She ordered the expensive poison online, waited for it in vain, twice. The third time, she was lucky.
She did not care to live for another 30 years, immobilised in bed, a possible future, according to the Parkinson's specialist. She didn't want to be a burden to her children, she didn't want money spent on her. Nor did she trust whichever system might end up caring for her to do so well. She'd always taken responsibility for herself, and she had decided to put a stop to the pain and the sorry deterioration. The law did not permit a suicide in her case, though her doctor, a general practitioner, was sympathetic. The specialist had waved her away; she thought he was a prick.
She inconvenienced no one - no suspicion arose though she died at home alone. We'd said goodbye on the phone just before she took the final drug. On my own at home, I sat still for a long time, wishing her with all my heart the courage she needed and an easy exit.
When she was found, the police were called; they came, they went. They may have suspected the truth but if so, they wisely let it be. Celebrating her generous life, we didn't mention how she'd ended it. To be on the safe side.
I miss her a lot. During the last ten years, we lived in different countries. We'd phone, maybe once a month... Long conversations: what hurt us, what kept us awake at night. It made a huge difference, for I the lack is now acute. She encouraged and supported me. She valued me more than anyone else, even my husband who loves me, though she would sometimes criticise me gently. (She was always gentle). She told me things I treasure, which glow in the dark.
We had met one afternoon, at a seminar. During discussions we'd each observed the other across the table, strangers in a strange land, the similarity of our background evident to us both. The session ending, we left together, shoulder to shoulder for the first time, beginning an intimate conversation which was to last some thirty years. Standing in the car park, clutching our keys, we plunged into acquaintance, the words pouring out, the listening intense, until her eyes, the features of her face became hard to see, shrouded...
It turned out that the day had disappeared, with it the light, and darkness was enveloping us, hiding us from each other. We checked the time on our watches: hours had passed... Surely not? We'd only just met, only begun... Was it this late? Really? We were bewildered.The clock face told us: "Go home."
A man I knew drove by; I caught his withering glance. He must have seen us earlier - Still at it! Unbelievable! Women!
* * * *
I read a wonderful book by Sigrid Nuñez, The friend (Hachette, 2018) which won the National Book Award that year. There's a suicide in it, less central to the plot than in her following book, What are you going through (Hachette, 2020). According to my cousin who is a serious writer - more serious than I am - Sigrid Nuñez is the best writer in the USA today. Years after reading The friend, I'm still under the influence, delighted by it, though it read almost, but not quite, like something fluffy, a romance, fluid, light, funny in places. The suicide remains mysterious.
I shall have to buy my own copy. I want to see how she achieves that lightness. I suspect she does what Hemingway recommends, cutting and cutting away as much as possible.
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