Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Later that day, Jim showed up. He was looking uneasy. He carried a small bouquet of flowers. They were already half-wilted.

'I brought you these', he said, putting them on the little table by my bed. As soon as he set them down, he immediately backed away to the other side of the room. Either he didn't want to crowd me, or he was uneasy about being within my close proximity.

'Thank you', I said.

He positioned himself against the wall near the door. 'How are you feeling now?' he asked.

'I really recommend morphine'.

'You must have been in agony'.

'Nothing a hysterectomy can't cure'.

The color was bleached from his face.

'I didn't know. I'm so...'

'I am the one who should apologize. I should have told you about this from the start. But I was a coward...'

He held his hand up. 'No need to explain', he said.

'The doctor said that if you hadn't found me...'

There was an awkward pause.

'I'd better go', he said.

'Thank you for the visit. Thank you for...'

'May I ask you something?' he said, cutting me off.

I nodded.

'The guy who got you pregnant... are you in love with him?'

'Was. Very deeply'.

'It's over?'

'Completely'.

'No', he said, 'it's not'.

I had no answer to that. Except something lame like: 'Let's talk when I finally get out of here'.

'Uh, sure', he said.

'I am sorry, Jim. Very sorry'.

'That's okay'.

But I knew that it wasn't okay. Just as I also realized that news of my hospitalization would disseminate quickly through Brunswick. Certainly, Duncan Howell knew that I had been rushed to the Brunswick Hospital - as a big floral arrangement arrived that same afternoon. It was accompanied by a card:

Get well soon... From the staff of the Maine Gazette.

I didn't expect an effusive note. But the generic quality of the message made me wonder whether Mr Howell had discovered the real reason behind my medical emergency.

Dr Bolduck informed me that - due to my surgical wounds and the amount of blood I had lost - I could expect to spend ten more days in the care of Brunswick Hospital. I was anxious about missing my forthcoming deadlines for the column - and put a call through to the editor's office. For the first time since I started writing for the Maine Gazette, Mr Howell didn't take my call. Instead his secretary got on the line - and informed me that the editor was 'in a meeting', but that he wanted me to have the next two weeks off, 'at full pay'.

'That's very generous of Mr Howell', I said. 'Please thank him for me'.

I spent much of the next ten days in a post-operative blur. Even though the worst of the pain had dissipated, I let it be known that I was in serious physical discomfort. I must have sounded convincing to Dr Bolduck and the nursing staff, as they kept my morphine bag topped up. There are moments in life when certain things shouldn't be confronted; when you don't want clarity, forthrightness, the truth. This was one of them. Every time I felt myself veering towards terrible lucidity, I reached for the morphine plunger. I knew that, at the end of ten days, I would have to get out of this bed, and continue my life. Until then, however, I craved chemical denial.

Ruth dropped in every other day. She brought home-made oatmeal cookies, and magazines, and a bottle of Christian Brothers brandy.

'Who needs brandy when you've got this?' I said, brandishing the morphine plunger.

'Whatever works', she said with a worried smile.

She offered to collect my mail for me. 'No mail, no newspapers, nothing tangible. I'm on a vacation from everything'.

I could see her eyeing the plunger in my hand. 'Is that stuff helping things?' she asked.

'You bet', I said. 'In fact, I might get it installed on tap in my apartment'.

'What a wonderful idea', she said. Her tone was so pleasant that I knew she was humoring me. 'You sure you don't need anything?'

'I do need something'.

'Tell me'.

'A complete memory loss'.

Two days before I was discharged, one of the nurses rolled away the morphine drip.

'Hey! I need that', I said.

'Not anymore', she said.

'Says who?'

'Dr Bolduck'.

'But what about the pain?'

'We'll be giving you some pills...'

'Pills aren't the same'.

'They do the job'.

'Not as well as the morphine'.

'You don't need the morphine'.

'Oh yes I do'.

'Then take it up with the doctor'.

The pills diminished the pain, but they certainly didn't dispatch me to Never-Never Land like the morphine. I couldn't sleep. I spent the night watching the hospital ward ceiling. Somewhere near dawn, I decided that I hated this life. It was too agonizing, too appallingly fragile. Everything hurt too much. It was best to make an exit now. Because I knew full well that once the morphine had drained out of my system, I would enter a realm beyond endurance. All reserves of strength, stoicism, resilience had been depleted. I didn't want to grapple anymore with such ruthless sorrow. I couldn't face the idea of living in a state of permanent anguish. So the alternative was a simple one: permanent escape.

The nurse had left two painkillers by my bedside if I needed them during the night. I would ask Dr Bolduck for an extra-large prescription to take with me when I checked out of here. I would go home. I would open a bottle of decent whiskey. I would chase all the pills with copious amounts of J&B. Then I would tie a bag round my head, sealing all potential air leaks with tape. I'd get into bed. The pill-and-Scotch cocktail would knock me out. I'd quietly smother to death in my sleep.

I reached for the two pills. I swallowed them. I continued to stare at the ceiling. I suddenly felt rather wonderful, knowing that I would only have to cope with forty-eight hours more of life. I began to organize to-do lists in my mind. I would have to make certain my will was up-to-date. No doubt, there would be a local lawyer in town who could offer me express service... as long as I didn't let on that the new will would be in probate only a day after I signed it. I would have to decide on funeral arrangements. No religious send-off. No memorials. Maybe a listing in the New York Times obituary, so a few people back in Manhattan would be informed of my demise. But definitely no organized memorial service. Just a local cremation here in Maine, and the local undertakers could do what the hell they wanted with my ashes. And my money? My so-called estate? Leave it all to...

Who?

There was no one. No husband. No family. No child. No loved ones.

Loved ones. What a facile expression to describe the most central need in life. But who were my loved ones? To whom would I bequeath my estate? I was flying solo. My death would mean nothing. It would hurt no one... so my suicide would not be a selfish or vengeful act. It would simply be a drastic, but necessary form of pain relief.

The painkillers kicked in. I fell into a deep sleep. I woke sometime during mid-morning. I felt curiously calm, almost elated. I had a plan, a future, a destination.

Dr Bolduck came around that afternoon. He checked my war wounds. He seemed pleased with the healing process. He asked me about the pain. I complained of a constant nasty ache.

'How are those pills working?' he asked.

'I miss the morphine'.

'I bet you do. Which is why there's no way I'm letting you near it again. I don't want you leaving here thinking you're Thomas de Quincey'.

'I think opium was his substance of choice'.

'Hey, I'm a doctor, not a literary critic. But I do know morphine is addictive'.

'You will give me something for the pain'.

'Sure. I'll give you a week's supply of those pills. Within three or four days, the pain should finally vanish, so I doubt you'll need them all'.