On friendship, suicide and Sigrid Nuñez

Several years ago, my friend X committed suicide, taking care to make her death appear natural. She ordered the expensive poison online, waited for it in vain, twice. The third time, whoever she had paid actually sent it. She felt lucky. 

She did not care to spend the next 30 years immobilised in bed, which was her likely future according to the Parkinson's specialist. She didn't want to be a burden to her children, she didn't want more 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 called him a prick.

She inconvenienced no one - though she died at home alone, no suspicion arose. We'd said goodbye on the phone just before she took the final drug. On my own at home, I sat without moving 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 and 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 feel the lack acutely. 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 I remind myself of, which glow in the dark.

In mid-life, we met for the first time at an afternoon 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 of many times, 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... 

The day had slipped away with its light and darkness was attempting to hide 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.

October 7, a year later

 At this time last year we were not living in our house. We'd abandoned it to the plumbers, renting a  3-bedroom house in Petone for 2 or 3 weeks, until new toilets had been installed and better still, the new shower. I read about the murders in Israel on my phone. I went to the bedroom, closed the door, and stayed there for the rest of the day. I didn't want my grandson to see me upset, to have to explain. At eight he was still too young. No one checked on me. It would have been nice if they had. 

That evening, instead of a weekly conversation on zoom, one hemisphere talking to the other, my son and my sister had a row, a shouting match. She was beside herself and he couldn't bear it. They haven't talked since. She always acted as if Israel didn't matter to her. But maybe it's not Israel's fate which has upset her, but the fact of the pogrom, a growing risk worldwide.

I can't bring myself to do anything much today (which is why I'm writing). I spent an hour on the news, particularly from Israel. I've weeded a patch of the patio, on my knees, on a contraption my daughter gave me, surprisingly comfortable. Then I gave up. No chance of working in the garden itself, it rained and everything is muddy now. I have to get through this day on my own, except for an Israeli event tonight, which will be upsetting, but maybe also a relief. The embassy have not yet announced where it will be held.

I finished Daniel Finkelstein's Hitler, Stalin, Mum & Dad (2023). He sometimes surprised me, developing a thought beyond my expectation, pursuing it in a paragraph's final sentence, into  new territory. Only later did I realise who he is - Lord Finkelstein, a former executive editor of The Times. The reading is easy, the language clear, fluent, always interesting. In the Introduction he mentions growing up in Hendon. My own Granny and Grandpa, also refugees, lived in Wessex Gardens, a stone's throw from Hendon.

Reading Swim by Avi Duckor-Jones

Avi's book came out five years ago in 2018 - with brioBooks in Australia. Immersed in the writing of my own book at the time, I was not aware of his work. I ran into him a few months' ago .

I borrowed the book from the library and read it quickly. I asked his mother whether he himself swam like the main character in the book (what is his name?) in the sea, for long distances. He occasionally allows himself to sink into the depths, his knees "tucked" to his chest, "holding [himself] there, suspended, and weightless". My book group will discuss the book in February and I am re-reading it in preparation. 

I ordered my own copy: it arrived with an upside down cover. I've complained to the publisher and hope they'll send me another one, to be lent to other members of the book group.

As a reader I have a weakness for the story: I need to know what happens before I can pay proper attention to the writing itself. (Should the writing be very bad, I'd quit). Otherwise I zip along and decide later whether to read it again for a better appreciation of the book's structure and style.

Having re-read the first four chapters of Swim, I'm looking forward to the rest. Avi has a light touch and lets the reader do some of the work, which I enjoy.

For instance, at the end of the very first paragraph; "Of course, after the letter arrived, none of that mattered anymore." 

Because of this letter, a young man living in California abandons a major project to return home to NZ. His mother is sick. 

In the second chapter, he's at home. Seen through his eyes, his mother is manipulative, fake. She was always that way. There's not much love. Nevertheless, he abandoned his previous plan. Why did it 'no longer matter', I wonder.

Childhood photos of him cover the interior of a closet in his room, a room within a room, every inch covered by photos. On every photo, the boy holds a wounded bird, occasionally a different animal, a mouse, or a ferret. He cares for the sick. This is hidden, though not from the mother.

We learn that his father committed suicide. I should not write any more.