A Book at the Dinner Table

Getting ready to come home wrapped me with sweet anticipation. I was dropping the pressures of final exams in favor of returning to the best place on earth. The airplane trip was over in a blink and I was already rushing down the airport escalators, eager to catch the first glimpse of my parents waiting for me at the bottom of the arrivals corridor.

I excitedly scanned around and then I saw them. Two beautiful people, side by side, gently smiling with their arms crisscrossed behind each other’s back. They didn’t both have to come but they did everything together. It became a family joke that they should install a second toilet so that they could enhance their ‘conscious coupling’ with ‘adjacent ablutions’. I felt overloaded with happiness at seeing those two humans who loved me unconditionally, who had sacrificed so much for me, and who would always be there for me.

The airport was so busy that I managed to nearly sneak up on them before they spotted me. Their little glad faces erupted into big joyful faces! Mom reached out to gather me up first in her arms. She cupped her hands around my cheeks, gave me a good look in the face, and announced, “You look so good! I thought you’d be tired after your exams.” Dad chuckled and stole me away from Mom for a strong bear hug. A mountain of a man, he promptly ushered me with his large arm across my shoulders to the baggage claim area asking loudly, “Now, my daughter, which oversized suitcase have you blessed us with today?”

It was all laughter and excited chatter in the car ride home, and as we pulled up to the house, I could see the setting sun placing a heavenly amber glow on the rooftop’s shingles and the trees’ rustling leaves. This place was an extension of my parents’ warmth and generosity. Stepping through the front door had the same feeling as the big hugs at the airport. The house welcomed me with that oh-so-familiar scent of sandlewood and fresh flowers topped with the delicious aromas from the kitchen which promised homemade delights. Easy jazz filled the ambient space with joy and easement. Soon, we were all comfortably cushioned into the luxurious Italian leather couches of the family room. When seemingly nothing could get any better, my older brother waltzed in through the front door.

He lives in town and so sees my folks way more often than I do, but you wouldn’t know that from the way they welcomed into the house. He got the same enthusiasm and love that they gave me, that they gave each of us every time they saw us. Now with our family completely in attendance it meant that we could eat! The table was beautifully set – almost as if it was a special holiday dinner. My parents were always the immaculate hosts. Sitting down, we held up our glasses to *ding ding* and make caring and thoughtful eye contact with each member of the family before taking a sip and tucking into the feast. The food, the place, the people, the environment truly all made this – as I said – the best place on earth.

For years I have enjoyed this delightful ritual, this sanctuary that did everything to heal me from the injuries of living my own live as rising adult. I was not quite independent yet, but was working hard to graduate from college and start a notable career. I could throw myself into my own struggles knowing full well that the healing balm of coming home would cure me of any ailments that had been inflicted along the way. The only thing that made this time different – and it was only ever so minor – was the presence of a book delicately placed on the side of the table next to my dad.

I couldn’t see the book in full, all I could make out was that it looked like a paperpack that had hardly been read. A few times during dinner, when there had been a break in the conversation, I saw my Dad place his hand on the book, but before he could follow up with his own commentary, someone else would interject with another thought or story to update us all. We went down many happy lines of conversation together like this. Each time, seemingly, taking turns – my mother, brother, and myself – in preventing my dad from turning all our attention to the book. He never gave an inkling of being perturbed at the inference and smiled that classic charming smile every time and willingly participated in the new topic tossed into the conversation.

While I didn’t know what the book was, I could feel what it was. I felt it so deeply, like a burning ulcer in my stomach that I tried in vain to sooth with bread and wine and cheerfulness. If I spent a moment too long eyeing the book, then that burning sensation in my gut traveled up my body and created an alarming tightness in my throat. I felt like I was going to be sick.

Between these micro moments of panic, I tried to read my brother, did he notice the book, and did he feel the same sense of dread? I got nothing from him. Nothing except that he’s not normally this talkative at dinner time. He, like my dad, was very charming and would easily partake in friendly conversation, but very rarely did he initiate a topic of interest especially if it meant offering up personal details of his life. Tonight though, I learnt more about his going-ons than I ever knew before. Since when did he volunteer for non-profit fundraising? And what about this tech billionaire that he casually mentioned? Apparently, he met some super rich guy who was pioneering biological liquid AI that could detect and prevent incurable diseases. Here I was thinking all he cared about was football and sports cars.

The thought of sports cars triggered a memory of his terrible car crash. The image of his thrashed and bandaged body on the hospital bed flashed in my mind. We almost lost him then. What an idiot – nearly killing himself from his own reckless driving. What a lovable idiot – if he hadn’t done that, then they may never have caught the life threatening tumor growing in his head. Thanks to his own reckless behavior, he accidentally saved his own life. The brain surgery was successful and cleared him of cancer, but maybe it scared him into preventing it from happening again? Or maybe his oversharing on his philanthropic efforts was his way of apologizing to my parents for causing them such pain?

I looked to my mother who doesn’t carry any more sadness in her eyes for her son. Her looks of love became laced with concern after the accident, but now all she exudes is pride. She is lapping up everything my brother has to share. But what did Mom make of this book? My Dad was between the book and my mom, she probably didn’t even see it. But every time Dad placed his hand on the book, she placed her hand on his hand next to hers. Coincidence? Or was she in cahoots? She never faltered in her signature calm and poise. But why was she so accepting of everything tumbling out of my brother’s mouth? I would expect a barrage of questions bordering concern with my brother’s newly formed attachment with this unknown rich guy? “Nobody dies from having too many friends” my mother replies to a point in the conversation, but she gives me this knowing look as if she’s reading my mind and speaking directly my thoughts.

Her turn of phrase takes me back to when she used those words almost exactly before. It was a several months ago now, back at the start of the start of academic year. I had almost forgotten about it completely. She and dad had called me, they were often both on the phone when they called. This time, though, they short cut the usual pleasantries with a request to have me dial in my brother. "Why?", I asked unbothered placing my book bag on my apartment bed. “Please, we want to speak to both of you. A family call.” Dad stated a bit too firmly. “Okay”, I say hesitantly “Just give me a minute. I haven’t three way’d someone in a while…” As soon as my brother picked up the phone with a brief hello, my dad asserted, “Good. Now we have the whole family on the phone. Your mother and I have news to share that we wanted you two to hear at the same time.”

There was silence from my brother, and my heart is beating hard. This is not good. My chest locks up – my lungs and heart straining to pump oxygen into my body. I feel light headed, but force myself to steady gripping the bedroom doorframe.

“We went to the hospital today and your mother had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.”

The chest pain explodes as if my heart has burst. My grandfather had Parkinson’s and we all knew the cruelty of the disease. We knew how much it steals from a person – from a whole family. And now it's taking my mother too. It simply couldn’t be. She was still so young and in good health. I didn’t want her to suffer like this. I didn't want to lose her. She didn’t deserve this - the degradation of your body and mind slowly over time. She didn't deserve to be attacked with uncontrollable tremors, and night terrors, and dementia, and hallucinations. We knew Parkinson’s to be limitless in how it tortured its victims.

I collapsed to my knees, propping myself up with one hand while the other hand, shaking, clutches the phone, pressing it tightly to my ear. The news hits my brother like a first blow in a bar fight, and I hear him fight back with an onslaught of questions: “When did this happen?” “How far along has the disease progressed?” “Who’s treating her?” I couldn’t hear any of the responses coming from my father, but after a while I did hear the grace and calm of my mother’s voice declare with kindness “Nobody dies from the disease itself, but I do not intend to go the way of Grandad.”

I’m in shock. I don’t know what to say or think. I have no recollection of how the call ended, and obviously I did my best to block out that entire conversation. But suddenly – it’s memory is cutting it’s way violently back into my consciousness at the dinner table, and right now Dad is lifting the book to stand it upright on the table. We’ve finally run out of things to say. I scramble to think of something else worthy of family dinner conversation, but it’s too late. I can see it now. The book is titled ‘The Self Exit.’

Dad has a gentle smile and mother is serene. Holding the book up with one hand and holding my mother’s hand in the other, Dad declares, "it’s time for us to address the elephant in the room." I clench my fists and my jaws, bracing myself for what’s to come next. Dad continues uninterrupted by any of us:

“In a civilized society, we will honor and speak freely about not only the act of death but also the individual choice to die, and it will be regarded as a courageous and acceptable decision.

We as a civilization are not there yet but there are places leading the charge, assisting those with their resolve to die on their own terms. Some of these places are more advanced, more sophisticated, and, fortunately for us, they are accessible with the right amount of funds. That’s where your mother and I are going. Together. To self-exit.”

I shake my head unable to accept what I’ve just heard. I knew Mom might do something like this to avoid the tortured fate of her father, but Dad too? They are going to die together?

“No! Not together!” My brother cries out, “I didn’t know that you would both go at the same time! You both can’t leave us!” He has broken his composure completely, gasping for air and sobbing with his head in his hands. I’ve never seen him cry like this.

My parents look to each other and squeeze each other’s hands. Dad responds lovingly, ‘You must both always remember how much we love you, and that we, your mother and I, have loved each other for a whole lifetime before you two came along. You must carry on living your lives as we choose to end ours.’

My mother hasn’t said a word, and I realize, for the first time, how much I’m like her. Just as she has, I’m holding my composure by saying as little as possible. But there’s a burning question that I absolutely need to ask, and it comes out as a raspy whisper, “When?”

Mom extends her free hand to me, and I grab it in a life saving grip as if I can hold onto it forever. She clears her throat and looks intensely at me at then at my brother. “I still have a few years left with a high quality of life. We, your father and I, will know when it’s right for us, and only we will know.”

In other words, they weren’t going to tell us when they were going to elect to die. At least they told us this much of their plan, and my brother and I still had some time to cherish with them. I try to rationalize what I’ve just heard, to think on the positive side, but it’s overwhelming. Hot tears stream down my face, and instead of wiping them away I focus on my Mom and holding her hand. My brother has regained some control but still silent-crying in his seat. Dad reaches out and grabs his boy’s hand. As much as it feels like they are abandoning us, it also feels like we are always going to be united as a family. I place my hand on top of my brother’s other hand, and he quickly turns it around so that he can squeeze mine. The evening’s dinner ended with all of us holding hands around the dinner table, comforting each other in a forlorn silence.

I spent the next two and half years talking with my parents once or even twice a day and visiting them as often as I could. I was maximizing the time I had left with them while still trying to push forward with my own life. We never broached the subject of their decision to self exit again. I made certain not to block it out of my mind again, and to simply love them to the best of my ability. I’m not sure how they managed it, but they made it to Switzerland without my or my brother’s knowledge. All that happened was that I couldn’t get through to them one day and then I knew they had died. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew. The next day, their deaths were confirmed by a call from the coroner. People call it ‘suicide tourism,’ which I think is such an ugly term. What they did was such a noble act and done with a great deal of love.

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For the first time after the death of my parents, I am getting ready to go home and I am filled with agony. There are no parents at the airport, no chatty drive on the way to the house. My uber driver gets 5 stars from me for not talking during the ride, and I stand in the drive way for a moment to look at our beautiful family home. I can still feel the love emitting from the house, but it’s muted now. I can’t stop the tears from welling up, blurring my vision. I force myself to take small steps towards the front door, and I’m surprised and so relieved to see my brother there. He’s sitting on the front door step, but why isn’t he in the house? He reads my puzzled face and stands up to hug me like he’s never done before. I hold him tight and bury my face into his shoulder, muffling my sobbing and soaking his shirt with my tears. After a time, he says “I couldn’t go in alone, not without you.” I nod knowingly at him, and we take a deep breath together, and then move to open the front door and enter the house. The colors have faded, and there’s no music in the house, no smells from the kitchen. There is a sealed note on the dinner table addressed to us. We look at each other, pulling strength from each other’s presence, and slowly take our places at the table. My brother opens the card and hands it to me, which I read aloud:

“The greatest thing that we did together was to have the two of you. Check the freezer for dinner. We love you, Mom and Dad.”