Frank's left hand trembled slightly as he reached for the flush handle.
He was dripping a bit as he straightened, then sat heavily in the
manual wheelchair.
"You done, Pop?" Martha said, striding in from the bedroom. But it wasn't a
question, and she grabbed the handles and yanked the chair backwards
so she could get at him. "Oh look at yourself! God damn, you peed all
over your pants. And they're clean pants!" Grabbing a towel from the sink,
she daubed it under the faucet and wiped down her father's pants.
She said, "See? Do see why this won't work
and why I've--" She stopped abruptly and looked around for his toiletry
kit. It was beside the bed where she had stuffed it full of his gear the
night before. "They'll be here in an hour. You can do that for yourself,
but after you've had breakfast." Martha tossed the toiletry kit in the
washbowl, grabbed the wheelchair and
heaved forward, around the corner and toward the hall.
Sam, Martha's eldest from her first marriage, came out of the main bathroom,
ready for school. He hurried along the hall toward the kitchen,
his mother and grandfather immediately behind . "I'll come visit you,
Poppo. I promise."
"You will not, young man!" his mother snapped. "You're not going to
be around all those old people . Around sickness and disease and death." As
Martha parked Frank at the kitchen table, she added, "The only
reason Poppo is going there is because I can't take care
of him. He needs to be with his own kind."
The twins, from Martha's second failed marriage, were parked at the end
of the kitchen table. Both lads thrust their 8-year-old tongues at Frank
when no one was
looking. Frank caught their gesture from the corner of his eye as Martha
put a cup of black coffee and a small plate of burnt toast in front of him.
She glanced at the clock on the stove. "You've got exactly eight
minutes, Sam. Please make sure that you and your brothers are ready."
She hurried off.
Once Sam was sure his mother was out of earshot he said, "The place
is only four blocks from my school. I'll come visit during
lunch, maybe."
Frank smiled a crooked smile; he patted Sam on his hand as he
shoveled Cheerios in his mouth. "You're a good kid," were his first
word of the day. Somewhat garbled from the stroke, but Sam
understood.
Frank drained the cup of coffee with his meds, taking two extra
hydrocodone tablets and seven ginkgo biloba capsules. The ginkgo would lessen
his blood's clotting ability that much more--not that clotting would
likely be an issue.
Within five minutes the kitchen was empty. Frank breathed a sigh of
relief and blotted the dribbles from his chin.
He pushed his wheelchair back from the table and wound up facing the large
calendar on the refrigerator. "The ides of March," he muttered. He
realized that it was only a week until the fifth anniversary
of Billy's death. As familiar as he had been with the slow, painful decline,
it still haunted him as his thoughts drifted back.
A nurses aide walked past the door just then and Billy screamed,
"Hey, goddamn it, I need more pain pills!"
"You just had some," Frank said. "An hour ago."
"So?" she exclaimed. "So goddamn what? I'm going gonna get addicted
or--"
A rapping on the door frame interrupted her and a tall thin man stepped
into the room.
"Wilhelmina Henderson?" he said. "I'm Dr. Chin, the consulting oncologist."
The doctor stared at Frank and startled. "Are you Dr. Henderson! Professor Henderson?"
"Well, I used to teach," Frank said and smiled. "It's been a
few years back!"
"This is a real honor," the younger physician said, extending his hand.
"You were the best prof I ever had... . You know, I almost went into
gastroentrology because of you. --I got off on your medical ethics course,
too. ...Man!"
After a few moments Dr. Chin returned to his patient. He wound up staying
an extra twenty minutes, dividing his attention between Billy and his
former professor.
A poisonous silence lingered in the room.
At last Billy spat, "Jesus Christ, here
I am goddamn dying and you're still the goddamn star. I worked myself
every bit as hard as you, but does anybody give a shit! Shit no."
"C'mon, Billy," he said softly, "you've had you're own career. We've each had
pretty decent lives, haven't we? Despite everything...." But Frank
knew that was his cue. He picked up his gloves from the bedside stand.
"I better get back to the house. The real estate people should be gone by now."
"Just like that! I'm not even dead yet and you've already sold the
house! When you buy that condo are you going to move one of your whores
in, Frank?"
He leaned over the bed to kiss her but she whipped her head away. "Just go.
Go! They say I'll be dead in a few months, so you should be happy. And
when I'm gone I guess you can go ahead with that stupid, idiot freezing
thing and one day maybe you'll be thawed out and have as many whores as
you want!" When Billy turned back, she found herself alone.
Billy didn't die of her breast cancer; less than a week later, a massive
heart attach took her in the early morning hours while she slept.
Martha's hollering brought Frank back to the present. She wanted to know
why her father hadn't walked himself back to the bathroom. "There's not
a damn thing wrong with your left side," she said as she grabbed the
wheelchair handles and shoved toward the master bathroom. "You could've
walked your chair back to the bathroom and been halfway done already.
--I don't know why I gave up my bedroom and my bathroom for you, Pop."
"Maybe because the wheelchair won't fit into the other bathroom?" he
said. But his speech was too garbled, and after repeating twice he gave
up. By then, Martha had pushed him near the sink.
She folded her robe beneath her and settled on the bathtub.
"I'm sorry for yelling, Papa."
"I know."
"Put yourself in my place, Pops. I can't take care of you and you can't live
alone anymore, right? Right? Your stroke was too serious.
All that high tech stock you bought after
Mom died is worth shit now. Right?" Martha reached across
and patted her father's shoulder. "Don't you see?" He nodded and a
moment later she added, "I've got needs too, Pop. I'm still young and
this new guy I met--Red-- wants to be with me. Here. He wants to move in
with me."
Frank almost laughed upon hearing her needs. As much like her mother as
Martha was, she had inherited a few of his traits. Billy's
interest in sex had evaporated with Martha's birth. Martha's desire for
sex when from Low to Absolute Zero. Frank breathed a sigh.
Martha was saying, "I need to shower and get decent. I'll be back to make
sure you're presentable." After looking at the clock on the dresser, Martha
said, "They'll be here in 45 minutes." With that she stood, caught the door and
strode off.
Frank was reaching for the toiletry kit when the door opened. "Oh, I
forgot, Pop. Dr. Ibrahim called last night after you were asleep. He
said he'll come see you a the the nursing home this weekend." A second
later Frank was alone; the door closed only partially.
He pushed off the sink top with his left leg; the wheelchair rolled into
the door and shut it. Then, walked the chair back to the sink and
managed to slide the toiletry kit onto his lap. With careful deliberation
Frank emptied things onto the top of the sink cabinet until he reached a
small towel at the bottom of the leather bag. Beneath were the
disposable scalpels that constituted his suicide kit.
A get-well card from David Ibrahim and family jutted from the top of the
toiletry bag. Frank's thoughts flashed back to the previous April when
everything had been so promising.
Frank Henderson had met with his old friend
at the Golden Bear near the campus where both had taught for so many
years. Meeting there for drinks was a tradition that had
outlasted their working lives.
They sat at the far end of the bar, where they always sat.
"You're really going forward with going back to school?" David Ibrahim said
with a latent smile and a look of skepticism.
"Yep. Got to keep busy. It'll help keep getting oxygen to the brain."
Frank grinned and made a circulating gesture with his hand, index finger
thrust forth. "I figure
that in a couple years I'll be busy working on the molecular-folding
algorithms. Who knows what I'll be able to discover? Maybe I'll
figure out BRAC--why it's so deadly. That's what killed Billy, you
know. Genes. Genetics: that's where the secrets are, Dave. I know
I can help find lots of answers."
Ibrahim was looking askance, with a wry smile.
"Hey, you served two tours in Vietnam, stuffing kids' guts back inside. Then
you worked here for thirty-what years.... When's enough enough,
old friend? Me, I know how to relax and smell the roses. And with my
shnozz...!"
Frank waved it off. "I get bored. I figure another union card
will at least keep me out of the pool halls! Let me keep on helping people."
Besides, I just-so-happened to save my nephew's life in Nam. If there
was a better reason for my second tour, I don't know it!"
Ibrahim was silent for a while, sipping his Bourbon.
"What I don't understand is
why Martha won't sign off on the next-of-kin thing and let you be
frozen when you die. That's simply beyond me, Frank."
Frank shrugged. "Y'sure got me, Davy. Martha keeps insisting that the whole
idea of cryonic suspension is stupid. Billy said the same thing. I
must've argued the fine points for hours. Martha says 'No' flat out."
Frank looked up, slightly surprised to see an old man returning his gaze
in the backbar mirror. "In a century or two, un-thawing the dead will be
on the high school science fair level. But ... ."
He took a long drink from his stein of beer and said, Just think what
I'd be able to do with the medical technology in a century... ." His
voice trailed off.
"Do you think it's the money?"
Frank shook his head. "It's all pre-payed. Of course, if I'm not
cryonically suspended, Martha can get the money back. But I can't believe she's
that selfish." After a few seconds he added, "I think Martha'll change
her mind. I'll give her a year or two. If she doesn't change her mind,
I'll take her to court. Justice is the last hallmark... ." He breathed
a quiet sigh.
David Ibrahim sighed. "I suppose we never know about our kids. Who'd have ever
thought that my grandson would do what he did? We gave that kid
everything! ...Everything."
David Ibrahim agreed with this prognosis a few weeks ago when Frank was
getting ready to be discharged from the rehab hospital. "I've studied
your scans," he said. ...It's worst case, Frank. --I'm being up-front
because I know you would do the same for me."
Already, Frank was significantly weaker and in
constant pain. With virtually
no hope of being frozen and revived scores of years
hence he decided to not die by inches. Not to suffer the indignities of
uselessness for untold weeks. Not just to satisfy whatever
pseudo-morality the State deemed appropriate.
Hospice care only slowed the
inevitable; its benefit primarily eased the feelings of those left living.
The ambidextrous skill of decades of surgery made every move count.
He held the scalpel precisely and set to work.
"Carotids," he said, and cut twice along the either side of his neck.
The warmth of his life flooded down the both sides of his
body. It wasn't especially pleasant to watch, not an action
that Frank had honestly expected. It was, he knew, unavoidable.
Then, dispassionately, Frank rested the scalpel on his knees.
He could have dropped the instrument...but
then, in life, you never know. His eyes fell upon the toiletry bag.
Inside, at the bottom on he back an envelope was his suicide note. Scrawled,
barely legibly, with his left hand was:
He watched the small rivers of blood flowing,
then took a deep breath and shut his eyes. At least in this final action,
he had won. His system would run out of blood in a few more moments.
Martha banged on the bathroom door at nine-fifteen, ready to accompany the
old man in the Cabulance to the nursing home, to get him checked in and
settled. The van was here early, and she was looking forward to getting
rid of her burden and going over to see Red in the afternoon. And then--
well, who knew?
"Pop, they're here!" she shouted, twisting the doorknob. It was blocked.
Martha's voice was as hard as flint. "Come on. God damn you,
don't give me any shit, Pop. You don't have any choice; it's time to
go! NOW!"
She didn't know that he was already gone.
Gary Kline
"You've been so good to me, Frank," she had said the day that had wedged
in his memory. Billy reached over the rails seeking Frank's hand. "So
good and I've been such a failure as a wife... . I--" Sudden tears
stopped her. A spasm of pain wracked her wiry frame and Frank stood
and comforted her as best he could. Billy was still attractive at 63;
her once-blonde tresses were a pale gray and cropped short.
The stroke slammed Frank Henderson while he was making breakfast on
August fifth. It was a massive event. He would have died if Martha
hadn't found her father on the floor, bleeding from the nose
when she stopped by to borrow some money just minutes afterward.
A month at UCSF and months of rehabilitation
at Skyline, and the downhill slope steepened radically. He knew from
experience that he would be put on hospice care within weeks of being
put in the nursing home.
"I chose not to live without hope. --Franklin Paul Henderson, MD, PhD"