23 July 2012
People come to me to die.
It's a surprisingly easy job, and very well paid. Not that I can tell anyone that, of course.
Today's client sits before me, hands shaking, tears running down her soft cheeks. She is 27, an art gallery owner, unmarried and has systemic lupus erythematosus progressing at an ever increasing rate. The normal drugs and treatments had no affect.
I could see a familiar pain in Samantha's face, "I'm scared, Doctor," she says, looking into my practiced, most trustworthy eyes.
"Perfectly natural," I reply, "But that is why this facility is here - to help."
She nods, dabbing her tissue on wet eyes.
"Everything will be as you have requested," I tell her, "Every detail of your death will be as you wish."
She remained silent, as I expect from this sort of patient.
"You have gone for the sleeping option," I hand her a leaflet she's had a couple of times before, "This is one of our best services, your last day will be one of your best - painless, drifting sleep."
"Thank you, Doctor," she said quietly, and for the millionth time I pondered why I was thanked for ending their lives. But I know the mantra, save them from pain, save them from suffering.
That was easy to believe with terminally ill patients. But what about the others? The perfectly healthy ones that came to me? The average humans that just came to die. What a strange world I live in.
I shook the thoughts off, and brought myself back to the client sat in front of me, "Now, Samantha, if you'll allow me to hand you over to our Head Nurse, Susie, she will look after you from here..."
---
I caught up with Samantha's body at the end of the day, for the removal of her organs for waiting donors on the continent. Another excellent source of income for me.
The lupus has only infected her heart, bowel and kidneys, the rest was healthy enough for us to take. Excellent, I thought.
But then the theatre phone rang, it made me jump, "Yes?" I snapped into the receiver, I hated my favourite job being interrupted.
"I'm sorry, Mark, but a patient is insisting on switching programmes," Susie's voice seemed strained, "They are causing rather a scene."
---
The patient, an elderly man of 84, stood out on the balcony of his room looking out over the turquoise sea of the Pacific Ocean.
"I managed to get him back in his room," Susie whispered in my ear, "But he is refusing the injection."
I make my way to the man, calling out, "Roger? It's Dr Taylor, can we have a chat?"
The man turned stiffly because of his arthritis, "Is there a problem with the change in my treatment, Doctor?"
"I'm afraid there is," I reply in my most considerate bed-side voice, "Your contract has been signed, paid for and been put in motion. We cannot change it."
"What can I do then? I don't want that blasted injection, it is too sad! I don't want to just melt away, unfeeling in a chair on this hell-bound island! Let me FEEL something as I die, for gods sake man!"
I frowned, "You knew what you were choosing, sir,"
"Yes but that was all when I lost my wife - I didn't want to feel anything then - now I still can't live without her, you know? But I need to go out with a bang."
A felt a rare pang of empathy for the man, one like I used to get when I first started this job. I looked out at the sun glittering on the surface of the sea, the gulls panning low across its surface.
"A beautiful place to die, isn't it, Roger?" I said, placing my hand on his back as we looked out to the horizon.
As the old man nodded, I pushed. I didn't watch his body fall from the balcony, I didn't stay to hear it hit the rocks below.
"Send a clean up team down, Susie, and consider Mr Green's contract fulfilled at no extra cost." I said as I walked away.
Dr. Mark Taylor • Opuss № I