Beer. More Beer. Sausage, cabbage and fried egg and oh, yes - Hans Zimmer.

Beer.

Danny had a plan. 

Our first evening in the beautiful city of Munich was to be spent paying homage to the locals, because, not only is Munich the capital of Bavaria, but also the capital of beer.

Having contributed nothing more to the planning than ‘what’re you wearing?’ Ellie and I were not about to argue, so, glad of the comfy footwear and guided by Google, we follow Danny and his phone for the twenty-minute walk from our hotel, across the River Isar, into the heart of the city.  

We are heading for the world famous Hofbrauhaus, a beer hall serving Hofbrau beer from 9.00 am to midnight, 365 days a year to, depending on which website you’re looking at, between three and five thousand revellers.

Well it would be rude not to go in wouldn’t it?

We enter the vast hall and are assaulted by the resounding uproar only a few thousand determined boozers can produce.  Beneath the racket we detect the melodious strains of Bavarian folk music as the band, resplendent in full traditional garb, valiantly play on, in a bid to add a little harmony to the chaotic yet joyful hullabaloo.

Waiters clad in lederhosen and collarless jackets and waitresses wearing the pretty Bavarian costume known as dirndl weave amongst the rows of beer-laden tables with characteristic German efficiency as they deliver, without the aid of a tray, not two or three beers at a time to their thirsty patrons, but at least eight.  

Eight! 

There is only one size of beer in the Hofbrauhaus.  You cannot have a small or a large beer.  You have a stein.  That’s it. 

Neither can you visit the Hofbrauhaus without having at least one.

We watch, mesmerised as these glistening barrels, clasped to the waiters and - even more incredibly – the waitress’ chests are held as securely and safely as cherished children.

It’s impossible, we declare, unable to believe our eyes.  What if one of them were to trip, we wonder, wickedly hoping one would.

Having witnessed such masterful strength and balance, I am ashamed to admit I struggle to lift my single stein even with two hands!

We find the bottom of our glasses eventually and stagger off in search of a sausage and to sample more of this city’s hospitality.  Which I would tell you about, but alas, I can’t remember!

More beer

We are determined to walk, to see the sights, to tour the city on an open top bus.

If we are to believe our iPhones, we certainly walked - twelve kilometres one day and fifteen kilometres the next.

You might imagine that a leisurely stroll around Munich would not present a problem but there is a network of abundant cycle paths traversing the entire city, not easily noticed by the hapless and often witless tourist.

Add to that a peloton of cyclists seemingly training for the Tour de France, or more likely on their way for a beer and you find yourself leaping for your life if: you are foolish enough to chat with your companions; daft enough to stick headphones in your ears and listen to music; walk and simultaneously read your guidebook or follow the map on your phone.

These cyclists charge up behind you, vigorously tinkle their little bells and adamantly refuse to slow down.

For the sake of our lives, we try very hard to obey the rules and not stray onto those perilous paths.

We do however struggle with the crossing the road rule that demands that nobody, absolutely nobody crosses the road until the little green man says so.  

Even when there is not a car in sight.  In any direction.  Anywhere.

I’m not talking navigating the equivalent of spaghetti junction here, but a simple street no wider than ten yards.  

For the most part, we are obedient, but once or twice we risk getting shot by the green men police and do the English thing and make a run for it.

The pedestrianized city centre offers us safety from little green men but unfortunately not cyclists. Despite the danger, we make it to the central square unscathed and join a huge crowd of people waiting for the town hall’s famed chimes and glockenspiel show of moving figures telling tales from the 16^thcentury.

Sadly underwhelming.

We arrive at the open top tour bus stop twenty-five minutes early.

Beer?

The bus fills up as we drink our beer, so we’re obliged to wait for the next.

Another beer?

At least the hour on the bus keeps us off it.  

But this is a city that thrives on beer.   Apart from the multitude of bars and restaurants – all of which are enormous and bursting with people, it has 180 beer gardens providing for 180,000 drinkers.  Almost all the main attractions in the city boast beer gardens.  The beautiful English Garden, one of our hop off points, enables a mere 7000 to make merry – and this is not even the largest.

We head to the outdoor market and rather than stalls bustling with shoppers we find, in its centre, row upon row of tables packed with sausage munching beer drinkers.

It wouldn’t surprise me to see ‘I’m only here for the beer’ emblazoned on everybody’s T. Shirt.

Well, if you can’t beat ‘em …

But there is a limit. And quite frankly my trips to the loo are becoming tiresome.  

Despite the beer jacket it’s cold in Munich in November and all this walking and drinking makes you hungry. 

And therein lies the problem.  Food.

Sausage, cabbage and a fried egg

Of course we’ve already sampled sausages from street vendors, but Bavaria is particularly famous for its weisswurst (white sausage) and they are everywhere. They may very well be delicious, but the problem is – they’re white.    

Bavarian cuisine is clearly loved by Bavarians as every bar and restaurant is teeming with diners tucking into enormous helpings of something or other, accompanied by giant pretzels on the side.  Presentation doesn’t seem to be an issue.  Vast quantities of everything chucked on the plate will do.

There is a smell of cabbage in every establishment, not surprising, given that it features heavily on most menus.  As do dumplings, liver dumpling soup, liver meatloaf, anything containing lard, cuts of meat we fail to recognise drowning in pools of gravy and topped with, weirdly, a fried egg.  Yes, a fried egg.

We see someone eating a salad, also with gravy, from a dish the size of a washing up bowl. 

The words Bavarian cuisine and fine dining do appear in the same sentence at the restaurant in BMW World, but our heady excitement is quashed when we realise it’s closed tonight. 

All in all, I suspect MasterChef has yet to make it to Bavaria.

Our advice?  When in Munich, eat Thai.

But why are we here? Is it only for the beer?  Of course not.

Hans Zimmer

Not the man himself unfortunately, but his orchestra in a show entitled ‘The World of Hans Zimmer – a symphonic celebration.’

For those who are unaware, Hans Zimmer is the genius composer responsible for film scores such as Lion King, Gladiator, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Dark Knight, Inception, Madagascar, The Holiday, The Last Samurai and countless more.

The concert is staged in the Olympic Hall in Munich’s colossal Olympic Park where earlier in the day Ellie and I encourage Danny to indulge in engineer heaven at BMW World and Museum. We accompany him until we’ve seen enough models of BMW, Mini and Rolls Royce at which point we kindly let him wander around alone while we find something else to do.

Beer?

On arrival at the hall we behave in an outrageously un-English fashion by barging our way through a mob masquerading as a queue and successfully knock about twenty minutes off our waiting time.

Time enough to grab a beer…

As the musicians take their places, an anticipatory hush descends as fifteen thousand excited people fall silent.  Well, except for the German couple next to Danny, who politely asks them to ‘sshhh!’ They do so, but not without a withering glare. 

Nothing stirs the soul quite like the drama of orchestral music.  The sound fills every part of you.  It vibrates deep within you and makes your heart pound against your chest.

I defy anyone not to be moved to tears as the spiritual and mournful music from the Gladiator reverberates in every corner of this vast arena.

The stunning film sequences projected on the screens behind the orchestra transport us to the very centre of ancient Rome.

Lured from the darkness of Rome to the kaleidoscopic vibrancy of Madagascar, we delight in the jaunty melody as Gloria the Hippo struts her stuff.  Disney can make a hippo sexy, but only Zimmer can make her dance.

We share in the spectacular and stirring victory of The Dark Knight and are gently soothed by the tuneful harmonies from The Holiday. 

The music launches you through time, across galaxies, to the summits of mountains and the fathomless depths of oceans.  

Your pummelled emotions bounce from fear to joy to triumph and despair.

We are held spellbound as The Pirates of the Caribbean surge through raging seas and the swell of the music intensifies so acutely you feel your heart is about to burst through your chest.  When you reach the point where you know you can’t hold your breath for another second the orchestra clutches you ever tighter and carries you with it as it hurtles towards its magnificent crescendo.

Phew!

Uplifted and exhausted, fifteen thousand people exhale as one, and the arena erupts in thunderous and rapturous applause.

What a wonderful, emotional and unforgettable experience.  Well worth the trip.

Homeward bound the following day, we arrive at the airport with two hours to spare.

Beer?

The Last of the Firsts

Today marks the first anniversary of Nigel’s death.  The day that Craig, Ellie, Becky, and I said goodbye to the man we loved and watched, with all-consuming, gut-wrenching desolation, as Nigel ended his life at DIGNITAS in Zurich.

He died calmly, happily and with unparalleled courage.

After ten years of living with Motor Neurone Disease – this is what he wanted.

The pride I felt for our three children that day was immense.  Their bravery surpassed only by Nigel's.  

I am sure that the memories of that extraordinary, heart-breaking day will never leave us.

Today, on this first anniversary, I suspect we will think of nothing else. 

It was indescribably difficult to leave that room.  The thought of leaving him there, alone, in that strange place, in another country, to be cremated without ceremony, was unbearable.   We lingered so long that eventually, we were encouraged, or rather, ushered, out of the door, by Kurt, the DIGNITAS representative and escort.

‘Don’t look back,’ said Craig.

I shouldn’t have.  But I did.

The silence throughout the journey back to the hotel was punctuated only by the sound of strangled sobs. We stared, seeing nothing but the rivulets of rain as they pelted the taxi windows.  Alone with our thoughts, we couldn’t speak.  There was nothing we could say.  I watched, mutely, as a single tear trickled slowly down the curve of Becky’s cheek.  The sight will stay with me forever.

Back at the hotel, Craig, Ellie and Becky made tearful calls to their spouses and I called Melanie and Paula.  They were the ones who had been elected to trickle the awful, but expected news through the network of family and friends.  

We spent the rest of that day and the next attempting to process what we had experienced.   

I felt like there had been a massive explosion inside my head.  I tried to gather what was left of the delicate shards of my shattered mind and store each sliver carefully on its own virtual shelf to be brought out again only when I could cope with that particular splinter of pain.   Then, as I suspect happens in times of trauma, a protective, numbing fog settled over everything that was left.

And along with Ellie and Becky, I drank an awful lot of wine.

Forty-eight hours later, home once more, my immediate concern was how to report Nigel’s death. We were all aware of the possibility of an investigation into a death at DIGNITAS.   What should I do?  Do I present myself to the Police?  Do I seek legal representation?   A solicitor advised me to report the death to Nigel’s doctor, who would in turn inform the Coroner.  It was the Coroner who decided the next step.   

Nigel’s determination to travel to DIGNITAS to end his life was no secret to the medical team that supported him throughout his illness and records of multiple discussions were on his file.  I have no doubt that this will have been shared with the Coroner.

Clearly a thoroughly decent person, the Coroner decided there was to be no next step.  Apparently an investigation is much more likely to be triggered if a body is brought back into the country.  Wish I’d known that earlier.  

I can’t imagine that any one of us could have predicted the magnitude of publicity that burst onto the media, traversing the entire globe within days of Nigel’s death.   This was entirely due to Nigel’s heart-breaking final post on Facebook, posted the day he died.

“It gives me great joy, today, to announce that I have found the one and only cure for MND, but it is with great sadness that it means I have had to go to DIGNITAS in Zurich to end my life.

I would like to thank all my Facebook friends for their support and friendship since I joined in 2008, one year into this cruel illness.  You have been a tremendous support to me throughout the ten years of this illness.

It is such a shame that the laws of this country prevent me from doing this in my own home.

My decision was arrived at because I wanted to take back control of my life and take the victory of killing me away from this disease.  I wanted to die while I am happy and can still smile and not be controlled by this wicked disease any longer.  I wanted to die with dignity instead of being tortured.

Some people may think it’s the easy way out but believe me it’s not easy to leave your loving family and friends.

I’ve been ‘dying’ to post this!! Ha ha ha ha!!

Thank you and goodbye. XXX “

This tragic message says so much about Nigel.  It shows his tremendous courage, his strength and determination and his irrepressible humour, even in the most dreadful circumstances.  As a supporter of Dignity in Dying, it displays his belief in self-determination, dignity and choice.    He was not a man inclined to self-pity, nor was he the type to give in without a fight.   But when the time came – at a point that only he should decide – he wasn’t prepared to go quietly.   Nigel’s final words, those inspirational, uplifting words, touched thousands upon thousands of people.

Despite the fog that now resided permanently in my head, it was very clear to me that I had to respond positively to the local paper’s request for a telephone interview.  The fog triumphed however, when asked the question: 

‘What was he like?’

How could I answer that? Right there, on the phone, without a moment to think?  What do you choose?  He was hundreds of things.  Multi-faceted.  Fascinating, infuriating, wonderful, kind, terrifying, bewildering, brave, hard-working, obnoxious, loving, soft, strong, hilarious …

I’ve never been able to articulate perfect sparkling sentences without thinking first.   I’d probably have misrepresented him entirely and grunted something ridiculous like, ‘Well, he was alright.’

So we agreed to do the interview by email and as a result, the journalist produced a truly thoughtful and sensitive article.  Seeing Nigel’s face smiling back at me from the front page of the paper brought a lump to my throat.  Nigel was very well known in Scarborough: a respected and fair businessman, an immensely popular golf and rugby club member and a great bloke to chat to in the Pub.   I tried to imagine what people would be thinking as they read it.  Many would have been shocked by what Nigel had done, but many more would not have been surprised at all.

I could never have anticipated the overwhelming response that article provoked.  In seconds it was all over the Internet.  The national papers scrambled all over it, wanting a piece of him, a version of him that they could invent.   They crawled all over his Facebook photos and grabbed whatever they could.  A sleazy freelance reporter turned up at the door and was sent packing.  I agreed to speak to a sole press agent who fielded the story to interested nationals and each one put their own particular, irritatingly inaccurate, spin on it.   I deeply regret that intrusion.

The story was featured on ‘The Wright Show’, which I watched in terror in case anybody dared to criticise him.

I was even invited to appear on ‘This Morning’.   The invitation was for the following week only.     I imagine stories must be current in order to maintain the interest of the easily bored public.  Given the persistent fog in my head and the certainty that I would not do Nigel justice, as my inability to be articulate in an impromptu fashion was at its height, I declined.  

Neither was I quite ready to pick up the banner and herald the cause of Dignity in Dying and I absolutely did not give a stuff about the easily bored public.   

But apart from that, it was too soon.  Far, far too soon.   My pain was much too raw to be exposed on national TV.   So, no thank you ‘This Morning.’ 

Three weeks after his death, Nigel came home.

His ashes had been collected from Heathrow by a funeral director and accompanied home.   This funeral director explained, with sincere consideration, that the urn was contained within a cardboard box.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was grateful to be warned about the cardboard box.  I mean you wouldn’t normally expect to be presented with your husband in a cardboard box unless you’d upset some seriously malicious gangsters.

He brought the box into the house displaying the kind of dignity and solemnity you would expect from one who is used to dealing with the bereaved.   I was pleased then that Nigel hadn’t just rocked up in the post.

Nigel’s initials DNC were stamped on top of the box.  The style and colour of the lettering were exactly the same as his DNC Scaffolding logo.

I was given copies of the death certificate, cremation documentation and customs records. Sincere condolences were kindly proffered in softly spoken tones before he respectfully departed.  There was no ‘if we can be of service in the future…’ 

This is not the kind of thing that happens twice.

I carefully retrieved the urn from the cardboard box and placed it in on the worktop in the kitchen. It was an unremarkable, plain terracotta pot, with a lid bearing Nigel’s name and date of cremation.  I touched it, gently stroked its side, and from that point on, started talking to it.  

‘Your Dad’s home,’ I said to the kids a little later that day.

None of us had seen ashes before.

 ‘Looks like muesli,’ said Craig, quite rightly, when we eventually did.

Nigel had previously chosen his own urn – a stylish white box with a weeping woman (me, obviously) draped on top of it.   A nameplate had been fitted in readiness for his Memorial in a few days time.   At least now we could fill it with Nigel’s genuine ashes and not expect Craig to carry the urn down the aisle full of sand from the beach, a few shells and the odd crab’s claw!  Not sure he could convincingly achieve quite the gravitas that the moment demanded.      

I retained some ashes to fill various mementos for the kids and other family members but the ashes I would leave in this terracotta pot were intended to nurture some Forget-Me-Not seeds that I would plant in Nigel’s memory.

The rest we would scatter.

A staggering 170 people attended Nigel’s Memorial.  Many more had wanted to come but the hotel could only cope with 150 they’d said – until they coped beautifully with 170.

This was not a day for tears.  This was a day, planned largely by Nigel, to celebrate the life of an exceptional man.  As requested, we wore our smiles and our touch of yellow, shared precious memories and funny stories and we four paid our profound and personal tributes to a husband and father, finding the words to express why he was so uniquely special. 

Every word of the ceremony has been recorded in a Remembrance Book, which I take (along with a letter I was to receive from Nigel the following day) to bed, when I need to wail.

Ellie presented me with said letter in the loos of the hotel where we were having lunch.  She had been his confidante, his conspirator, and his hand to write the words as he dictated them.   But not his signature.  He took the trouble to sign it himself.  It was his wish that I receive it the day after his Memorial.  This was his way of encouraging me to move on, to live my life. To be happy for the life we have shared, but to find a way to enjoy this new one.  It is entirely typical of Nigel to be so compassionate.

But the letter, now my most treasured possession, merely magnifies my sense of loss and the deep, unending sadness that I carry with me, even now.  

But then, less than four weeks after Nigel’s death, I couldn’t imagine moving on.

They say there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  Nobody claims it’s that straightforward of course.   These are not items on a list that can be ticked off when completed.  It would be nice though wouldn’t it if grief could be likened to a railway line and you could travel through those five stations then jump off the train?  Job done.

I personally feel that we had been through all of those stages before Nigel actually died.  As a family, we had reached the point of acceptance when Nigel went to Switzerland.

But even though we acknowledged that enormous sense of relief when Nigel’s suffering was finally over, that relief could do nothing to quell the sadness we felt, and will continue to feel, because he had to suffer in the first place.   Nor can it suppress the sorrow brought on by his loss.  

So, I’m not actually convinced that you can ever get off that train.   What is sad today will still be sad ten years from now.  Sadness stays with you.  It becomes part of you.  You can’t leave it behind.  It’s not something that comes to an end or something you get over.  You just change.   Become a new you.

My family, bound together by the invisible wires that support us are coping in our different ways.  The kids will tell me if they’ve had a little cry, if they thought about Dad today, saw somebody that looked just like him, or simply need reassurance that it’s what he wanted. 

As for me I do not come across as a wretched, wailing widow.  

Not at all. 

I still laugh, have fun, derive immense pleasure from my family and friends and look like I haven’t a care in the world.  

There are many times when I respond to the question of ‘how are you doing’ with ‘I’m fine,’ and actually mean it.  

‘Just take it five minutes at a time,’ said a fellow dog walker, whose name, for my shame, I still don’t know.

Easy, manageable chunks of time.  Five minutes. Anybody can do anything for five minutes.  Well, okay, you can’t hold your hand in a fire or hold your breath underwater for five minutes – but you can hold it together, keep control of yourself for five minutes, surely?

I have been overwhelmed by how much people actually care.  From a simple phone call or message via Messenger saying ‘thinking of you’; or a text asking if I’m okay; unexpected bunches of flowers appearing on the doorstep; an invitation to dinner or lunch or an entire weekend away - family and friends keeping a discreet and watchful eye and helping me keep busy to the point of dragging me off on holiday.

I have sidestepped the many hundreds of steps carved into the stunningly beautiful island of Santorini in favour of spending the days soaking up the sun, sipping the wine and savouring those spectacular sunsets.  It wasn’t too difficult to be tempted to travel twice to Tenerife where the only decision required of me each day was at which restaurant to eat.   Weekends in London combining a show, posh dinner, lots of wine and the odd sight here and there have also been slotted into my increasingly packed diary. 

And yes, most of the time I’m jogging along perfectly well doing what I have to do.

But then that sense of loss will suddenly wash over me when I hear a particular song, or a character on TV uses a phrase Nigel would use, or I could simply be filling the dishwasher.  It’s actually at its worst when I’m having a really good time and I’m abruptly reminded that Nigel isn’t here to share this moment with me. Then it’s not just about my loss – it’s about his.   And his loss is so much greater than mine.

Some mornings I wake up feeling like my body is made of lead and the only reason I drag myself out of bed is because the dog will make a mess if I don’t.

But at least I can prepare for the ‘Firsts’.  The important points in the year that should be marked by family celebrations.

Like the kids’ and grandkids’ first birthday without Nigel in their lives.   The absence of ‘and Dad’, ‘and Grandad’ written in their cards.  

My own birthday and no card from him at all.  

We made a big deal of Nigel’s birthday.  This was our opportunity to scatter his ashes in Casson’s Copse on the golf course.   So called because of Nigel’s constantly misdirected drives.  Lit by the torches on our phones and armed with our personal little Tupperware containers, containing a little bit of Nige, we crept over the course before dawn with far less dignity than the occasion warranted and after a great deal of heading in the wrong direction, eventually found the Copse.

Craig, who is proving to be quite the poet, moved us to tears as he read the verse he had written especially for this moment and we were quite unable to pretend we weren’t really crying as we scattered Nigel all over his Copse and quite a lot of ourselves too.

We then sat on a bench overlooking the sea, demolished a bottle of champagne and watched a disappointingly unspectacular sunrise.   

It was lovely.

Then of course, helped along by copious amounts of alcohol we stumbled through Christmas and New Year, conscious of that nagging feeling that someone important was missing.

What should have been our 40^thwedding anniversary passed, sadly, almost unnoticed.

And now, it’s today.   The first anniversary of Nigel’s death.  The last of the Firsts.

At times of loss, many people look for help from outside normal conventions and seek solace in their faith.  Whilst respecting the beliefs of others, I don’t believe in God.  Neither do I believe in the Afterlife.  

I struggle with the concept of angels and all the symbolism that goes with it.   I don’t believe that Nigel’s spirit is watching over me, or that he’s waiting for me somewhere.  Trust me, if he was watching he would have found a way to play merry hell about the money I’m spending!

I know exactly where he is. He is in my head, in my heart and in my soul.  

What’s left of him is mingling amongst the shrubs in Casson’s Copse, he’s resting in his chosen urn in the lounge, he’s got a place on the mantle in all the family’s houses and he adorns the necks or wrists of the ladies in a piece of memento jewellery.

Yet, inexplicably, today, of all possible days, the Forget-Me-Nots, nourished by a little bit of Nigel in that terracotta pot, have chosen to flower.

Serendipity?

Regardless of my beliefs, or lack of them, nothing can stop me from talking to him – or about him - all the time.

My conversation is littered with snippets about Nigel.  Whoever I’m talking to will be reminded about what he used to say, what he would have laughed at, what he loved or hated, what he did or didn’t do. 

I indulge in a constant personal internal dialogue.  Well, strictly speaking a monologue, as I never get a bloody answer.  

I constantly seek his advice and then go right ahead and do precisely the opposite of what he would advise.  ‘What would you do Nige, if you were here?  What would you think?’  But the man with whom I shared every thought, idea, question and observation, isn’t here anymore. 

I recently came across the expression ‘widow brain’ and instantly grasped its meaning as it applied to me.   There are days when I wonder if dementia is taking hold or my brain has suddenly become a tin of mushy peas.

I feel that I have lost much of the confidence I once had in both the things I do and things I say.   I am suddenly fumbling helplessly in the darkness of the gap that is left in my life. The one person who shared my greatest, joyous and most wonderful moments, who understood everything about me and loved me anyway, the one who knew what I was thinking without the need for me to utter a single word, the one who picked me up when I fell, held me close and kept me safe, is gone.   

Consequently, in spite of family and friends, there are times when I feel completely lost and entirely alone.

I wander round the house and stop and stare at any one of the many photographs of him that line the walls. If I stare long enough and the wine has rendered me particularly pissed I might even imagine that he winks at me.

I shake my head as if to say, ‘Nigel you bugger, why did you leave me?  What am I supposed to do now?’  Then I place my hand on his image and hold it there.

Of course, I know why he left me.  We all do. 

And I loved him too much to stop him.

Nigel, MND and Me (13) Nigel's Cure

September 2016 – The Decision

Six lorazapam tablets remain untouched on the table beside Nigel’s chair.

He’s sleeping deeply.   He appears calm. 

Pleased, but surprised, I leave him in peace.   His sleep is normally disturbed and erratic.  He’s constantly on edge, fretful.   Invariably, at least two calming lorazapam are needed to settle him.   These tablets have become his little helpers.   If we are expecting a visitor, he will take two in anticipation; if he’s going out, to the dentist, perhaps, it’s four. 

He takes them to relieve the endless, dispiriting feeling of desolation as this cruel disease’s relentless incarceration continues and to assuage the ever-present threat of horrific and painful spasms.    If he’s having a bad day, nine can be swallowed before lunchtime.

‘I’m concerned that he’ll become immune to them,’ says the doctor.  ‘This is helpful end-of-life medication, and he would derive no benefit.’

Well, for the moment, he needs them during his life.  We’ll worry about the end at the end.

I hear him stirring, so I quickly make us a cuppa.  We’ll no doubt perform what is now our afternoon tele-watching ritual. 

‘What do you fancy on the box?’ I ask, placing his cup of tea on the table next to him.

No response.

‘You OK?’

He nods, smiling a little.

‘What’s going on?’

Something has changed.  He seems different.  Calm.  In control.  His eyes don’t have that troubled look.   There’s something new there.  Determination?  No, more than that.  He’s triumphant.

‘I have the cure,’ he says.

I pause a moment, puzzled.   Suddenly, I’m concerned.   A sense of fear creeps into my mind.  I know Nigel.   Tentatively, I sit on the edge of the settee.  I force myself to ask the question – even though I already know the answer. 

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my voice just a whisper.

‘I’m going to DIGNITAS,’ he says.

For what seems like a very long time, in silence, I hold his gaze. 

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Of course he’s sure.  I know that.  I can see it in his face.  Nigel wouldn’t make such a decision lightly.

‘Have you had enough?’  I ask, stupidly.  Who wouldn’t have had enough?  And yet, because Nigel has demonstrated nothing but incredible courage and steadfastly maintained his tremendous sense of humour, despite the devastating effects of this dreadful disease, it is hard to recognize when such a man would determine that he has had enough.

‘It’s not so much that,’ he explains, ‘I refuse to let it annihilate me.  And I think it will if I don’t stop it.  I won’t give it the pleasure.  I want to get in first.’

I understand.  There has been a change in how the disease is affecting Nigel.  These last few arduous months have seen it threaten to steal his spirit.  The laughter has almost stopped.  The disease is starting to eat away at his resolve.  It has begun to change him.  Nigel can cope with any physical disability, but he cannot be denied his sense of self.

‘I want to die while I’m happy.  I want to die while I can still smile.’

‘Oh Nigel,’ I sob, tears stinging my eyes.  I cross the room to his chair, fold him in my arms and hold him close. 

And, for only the second time since his diagnosis, he allows himself to weep.   

The Preparations

First, you become a member.  DIGNITAS is an organization, not, as is often stated, a clinic.  You don’t need to be terminally ill, you may not be contemplating suicide, you can become a member simply because you share the organization’s values.

We pour over the literature.  We watch every video on YouTube of people who have been to DIGNITAS.   We read every article that has been written about it. 

There is much to do.   Nigel composes the letter requesting an accompanied suicide.   This letter must explain his condition, the prognosis, and the reasons behind the request.   A significant amount of supporting documentation is required: comprehensive medical reports; certificates; even dental records.  The process is complex, thorough and professional. 

A file is opened, every email back and forth to DIGNITAS is printed and arranged in date order.  When Nigel hears the clatter of the letterbox he sends me scurrying to retrieve the post, to see if the next stage has been finalized.

It consumes us.  It’s all we talk about.  All this is carried out in the afternoons.   In secret.  When we are alone. 

Only family, a few close friends, the GP and Hospice staff are aware of Nigel’s plans.

‘It feels just like it did when you told us the diagnosis,’ says Craig, as the overwhelming grief felt ten years ago comes charging back.

Ellie and Becky react in the same way.

Nigel has been ill for such a long time.  We are so accustomed to it that we assume things will be like this forever.  We struggle to imagine how things could change.  But now, suddenly, we know that it will soon be over. 

Just before Christmas, Nigel receives the letter that gives him the ‘provisional green light’.  This means that DIGNITAS has agreed to help him, should he decide to go through with it.  The doctor who has considered his case will, provisionally, write the prescription for the lethal drug.

Nigel reacts like he’s just been given the best Christmas present in his life.

‘I want to go in April,’ he says.

‘Why April?’

‘It’ll be warmer.  Give the sun chance to shine.  Plus, if I go after the 6^th it’ll be better for tax.’

‘Are you kidding? Only you would influence the day you die because of tax advantages! ’

‘Well, why not?’ he says, laughing.

Now it’s real.  It’s happening.  We have just a few short months.

‘Are you absolutely sure you want to do this Nigel?’  I ask, as I have every day since September.   But now it looks certain to happen, I need to hear his answer every day.

‘Definitely. Yes, I really do.’

‘OK.’

‘Are you with me on this?’

‘Of course I am.  I do understand.  It’s just so … final.  I’m going to lose you.  And I love you.’

‘I know, but it’s the best thing for me.’

‘I know,’ I say, fully accepting the situation.

He takes my hand and raises it to his lips to kiss it.

‘You’re the only one who could talk me out of it, you know.’

‘Really?’

The weight of this knowledge hangs like an anchor round my neck.  Should I attempt to talk him out of it?  Should I persuade him to change his mind?  To stay with us a little longer?  To wait for a natural death?   Would I be doing that for him, or for me?  And in so doing, would I condemn him to endure the torture of a living death?  Could I watch him shrivel as his spirit is ripped from him?  Could I look into his haunted eyes when there is nothing reflected in them but anguish?

‘Will you try to talk me out of it?’ he says.

‘No,’ I say, as I gently kiss his head.  ‘I love you too much.’

The Laughter is Back

Nigel is out of jail.  His decision has freed him.  And he is back.

‘I’ve never seen you so calm,’ says the doctor, genuinely amazed at the change in him. 

Naturally, as a doctor, she can’t say that she agrees with Nigel’s decision to go to DIGNITAS, but neither does she say that she disagrees.

‘You appear to have taken back control,’ she says.

And he most certainly has. 

Socializing with family and friends is back on the agenda.   The almost forgotten Saturday afternoon rugby sessions, when a few like-minded mates come to the house and enjoy some easily prepared ‘pub-grub’ whilst watching a few games with Nigel, has been reinstated.

We are planning a spectacular Christmas.   There’ll be fourteen for dinner.   Last Christmas Nigel couldn’t bear the thought of even family being in the house for long.

He has renewed vigour – a sense of purpose.

The Carers, none of whom yet know of Nigel’s decision, are utterly bemused by this transformation.  They are astonished at how significantly changed he is.   He is enjoying his days, not tolerating them.  His appetite for food has returned, so much so, that, after years of following a diet of soft food, he is requesting and relishing fillet steak.

He has taken not one single lorazapam, since he made his decision.  Not one.  And no longer, when he goes to bed, does he feel the need to swallow three large gulps of morphine. 

But he still has MND.  And he is getting weaker.  Physically, at least.

Mentally, he’s stronger.   And the laughter is back.    

The Recce.

So, how do we get there?  Nigel has barely been out of the house for years.   It’s a challenge getting to the end of the street.    It used to be the case that any kind of long journey was out of the question, because Nigel could never be far from a toilet.  However, incongruously, the fitting of the catheter has afforded him much more freedom.  Still, I am concerned.   The only place he feels comfortable is in bed and this is where he is spending more and more time.   The truth is, he’s too ill to travel.

But Nigel is nothing if not determined.  Nothing will deter him.  He will find the strength and the means, of that I am certain.

‘Will you come with me?’ asks Nigel of the kids.

Try stopping them.

‘Let’s do it in style,’ says Nigel.  ‘Let’s charter a private jet.’

An attractive option and certainly one that we pursue enthusiastically, until it becomes clear that Nigel would need to be able to transfer from his wheelchair to sit on a seat in the cabin.  Out of the question.  He’s far too disabled.

 Train then?

‘We need a recce,’ suggests Becky, a born organizer.  ‘We should test the journey.  See how disabled-friendly it is.’

As Ellie’s skills are best utilized in caring for Nigel, Becky and I elect to carry out the recce.

We consider whether, for realism, one of us should go in a wheelchair, but I know the dimensions of Nigel’s chair and every aspect of his disability so I decide against it.  We arm ourselves instead, with a specially commissioned notebook and a sturdy tape measure.  We will walk the disabled access route of every station; measure every gap and doorway and question appropriate ‘assistance’ staff along the way.  We book trains that mirror the times we plan to travel when we go ‘for real’.  Fifteen hours.  First Class all the way.

We get as far as York.   I search in vain for the wheelchair space as we hurtle towards London. 

‘At the other end of the train, if there is one.’ I am less than helpfully informed.  She goes onto explain that ‘Grand Central’ has two types of train – she does explain the difference - but I stop listening.  Clearly this is not the type I need. 

Lesson one.  Book a Virgin train.

King’s Cross is a breeze, a quick and easy wheelchair route to St Pancras and a short wait for Eurostar to take us to Paris.   The Eurostar wheelchair space is perfect, the disabled toilet, big enough for us to take Nigel where we can discretely empty his catheter bag.

The gates of hell gape open and gorge its ghastly horde of horrible humanity onto the Hades that is Paris.  We have ninety minutes to cross it.  The taxi, booked because it boasts wheelchair accessible vehicles, due to take us from one station to another to make the connection to Zurich, arrives late.   It inches, agonizingly slowly through the cacophony of chaos. 

The snake of traffic at the Gare de Lyon is so atrociously long that we are forced to alight from the taxi and finish the journey on foot.  There are many, many steps and impatient, preposterous people, intent on perpetuating the pandemonium, blindly battering all before them with their bags. 

This is too much for Nigel.  He can’t do this.

‘There are too many moving parts,’ says Becky.  If one thing goes wrong at any point, Dad’s stuffed.’

It’s not going to happen.  We really don’t need to bother getting the next train to Zurich, but we do. 

As if to reinforce our decision, the doorway to the carriage displaying a wheelchair symbol is narrowed significantly because this is also where luggage is stored.  Even without the luggage, Nigel’s chair won’t get through the gap.

We arrive in Zurich shortly before midnight.  Eleven hours later we are sitting in the same carriage, preparing to do it all again on the return. 

We arrive home knackered, disheartened and dejected.  

Thanks however to the magic of the mobile phone, our unsatisfactory recce has been fully communicated to the rest of the family.  Our disappointment is short-lived.  Ellie has found a Motorhome for hire, fully equipped for disabled use, sporting a profiling bed, ceiling hoist and toilet. 

Why didn’t we think of that in the first place! 

A Nice Little Infection.

Nigel’s appointment with death is in the diary.  But death is no longer the gruesome phantom of the Grim Reaper.  Death is his friend.

Nigel spends most of his days in bed now.  Once his Carers have showered him, he goes back to bed and stays there until three or four in the afternoon, when I get him up and give him his tea.  He sleeps most of the day.  He’s withdrawing from life, moving closer to death.

The doctor and nurse from the Hospice visit every few weeks.  Each visit she asks if he is still determined to go to DIGNITAS.  She is concerned, ironically, about his health – about his ability to make the journey.  And she tries again, to reassure Nigel that her role is to not unnecessarily prolong his life, but to ensure instead that the end of his life is as pain free as possible.

‘Your condition has deteriorated significantly,’ she says.  ‘If you were to get an infection, we don’t have to treat it.  We can just keep you comfortable.  And I suspect, if left alone, the infection would kill you.’

‘Have you got one in your bag?  Nigel asks, smiling.

‘What?’

‘An infection.’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m going to DIGNITAS.’

Before they leave, Nigel thanks them for the care and support they and everyone at the Hospice have given him over the last ten years.  You have been marvellous, he says.  Resigned, the Doctor wishes us well, requests that I keep them informed, and offers me counselling.  The nurse leaves in tears.

 ‘Are you sure you want to go through with it?’ I ask, as usual.  ‘A natural death would be a good thing wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, but there’s no saying when that will be is there?  It’s not likely that a nice little infection will come along just when I need it and do me in just when it suits me is it?  Can’t risk it.  I want to die while I’m happy and smiling.  Not when this disease has had me trapped for years inside a screaming useless body.’

‘OK.’

‘And anyway, I’m looking forward to our ‘City Break’! Five go to Zurich!’

‘You’re amazing Nige,’ I say, astounded at his humour and his courage, ‘I always knew you were, but you actually surprise even me.  So come on, buggerlugs, let’s have you out of bed.’

‘Thank you,’ he says, as I manoeuvre the hoist into position in order to lower him into his chair.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘No, I mean, thank you for being my wife all these years.  You’ve been wonderful.  You’ve made me very happy.’

This unexpected expression of tenderness takes me by surprise and a surge of love locks in my throat.  Flustered, I busy myself by releasing the sling from the hoist.  It proves a welcome distraction and forces me to fight the swell of tears that suddenly blinds me.

‘And thanks for looking after me.  This wasn’t supposed to happen was it?’ he says.  ‘It wasn’t part of the plan.  I’m sorry.’

Sorry.  As if he could have prevented any of this.

As he’s settled onto his chair, I cradle him close to my chest and gently kiss his head.  It smells fresh and clean - Jean Paul Gaultier being today’s chosen aftershave.  He wraps his arms around my waist and holds me, as tightly as he can, and gently, we sway together and share our sorrow as we think of what might have been, of what we have lost.

As I hold him, I am reminded again of how immense will be the loss I have yet to suffer.

1 April 2017 – Count Down

‘I wish I’d asked Ellie to make me an Advent Calendar,’ says Nigel as I add some vital medication to the pile of stuff lined up on the sideboard next to his bed, waiting to be checked off before I commence packing.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ he says, laughing now, ‘I could open a new door every day as I count down to ‘D’ day.’

‘’D’ day?’

‘Yeah – Dying day.’

‘Bloody hell, Nige.’

‘There could be a picture of the Grim Reaper behind one door, a gravestone behind another, a bottle of poison behind another - until eventually, on the 25^th - a coffin.’

‘My God, what are you like?’ I say, shaking my head, smiling, in spite of myself, at the sound of his uncontrollable giggling.  ‘Only you would think of that.  Only you.  You actually seem like you’re looking forward to it.’

‘I am,’ he says, without hesitation.    ‘It’s time.  Time to go.  I can feel it.’

I don’t argue.  Nobody knows what’s happening to Nigel’s body more than Nigel.  He is much weaker now and he knows that if he doesn’t go soon he won’t be able to.

Every day, as yet more of his physical strength deserts him, his inner strength flourishes.  He is becoming ever more focused on the challenge he faces, and utterly prepared to willingly embrace the ultimate outcome. 

Now that all arrangements are in place, our afternoons, him directing the proceedings from his bed, are spent making lists of tasks I must perform afterwards.  Inform the solicitor, banks, SKY, BT, the Golf Club … and so on.  He is still trying to anticipate everything, trying to look after me, even after he’s gone.

He composes his final, moving message to his friends on Facebook, which will be posted the day he dies. 

Nigel takes the lead in planning his memorial ‘do’.   His message to the congregation takes hours of thoughtful preparation.  As a family, we choose the music - Pink Floyd and Bob Dylan.  He approves the venue, the order of service, and even meets the Celebrant who will conduct the service. 

‘Tell everybody to wear yellow,’ he says.

‘What!’ I gasp, horrified.  ‘There’s not a woman in the world who would want to wear yellow!’

‘I know,’ he grins, wickedly. 

‘What about just a touch of yellow?’ I ask, seeking a compromise. 

‘Ok then, let everybody wear what they want, but a bit of yellow.  A bit of sunshine.’

The ‘Goodbyes’

The diary is full.  Family and a few trusted friends are booked in to say ‘goodbye’.  Urgency and reluctance exist in equal measure.  Of course this is unknown territory for us all.  Honoured and terrified at the same time, those who have an invitation probably liken such a visit to an audience with the Pope. 

There are so many ‘lasts’.   The last Friday visit from his good friend – leaving the house with a list of things for him to do after the event; the last Saturday session watching the rugby with his fellow fans.  They will miss those laughter-filled days.  A concluding business meeting with our long-standing and entrusted accountant, who leaves with clear instructions to safeguard my financial status.   The last visits from his nephews, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, mum-in-law, extended family; a private message via Messenger from his niece, and the final, difficult and emotional farewell from his business partner of thirty years.

The awkward, ‘what are you supposed to say?’ question evaporates as Nigel talks of inconsequential, everyday things.  He puts everyone at ease.   He jokes, laughs, shares some special memories and behaves completely normally until it’s time for that final kiss, that final handshake, that final goodbye.   To help you on your way, Nigel drags a funny remark, quip or joke from god knows where. 

‘He makes it so easy,’ says his nephew as he departs.

He laughingly asks another family member, a tattoo artist, if he has the time to tattoo the words ‘may contain nuts’ on his scrotum.   Like others before and after him, he is left with nothing to do but plant a smile upon his face as he shakes his head in admiration and disbelief.  

I offer comfort to people as they leave.  Each one struggles to keep some degree of composure.  Some need a hug.  Some hold it together until they have fled the house; others leave quite unable to quell the tears.  But all feel better on their departure than they did on their arrival.  Glad they came, happy to have shared this precious time and blessed to carry with them the enduring memory of the sound of Nigel’s laughter.

A few find it impossible to utter the words that fill their hearts and follow up their visit with a private email or a note or card to Nigel, where they tell him, eloquently and deeply, how much he means to them and the impact he has had on their lives.

The final week is reserved for immediate family.   It’s important for us to make each visit a little more special.  We share the evening together.  I provide food or we order a take-away.  We have a few drinks - Nigel has a beer, sometimes a whisky, sometimes both.   Conversation flows naturally and there is always laughter.   Once Nigel’s Carers have helped him to bed, each individual family member has the opportunity to visit Nigel in the ‘West Wing’, where each one can say a personal, agonizing and heartfelt goodbye.

And of course, each Carer, who are all now regarded as part of the family, receive, in an overwhelmingly emotional goodbye as their final shift is completed, Nigel’s grateful thanks for helping to make his last few years bearable.

22 April 2017 - Leaving Day

The family is gathered.  Here to see us off.  The motorhome is packed and ready.

It’s time to go.

Kisses, handshakes and hugs all round. 

‘Where’s Bodger?’ he says.

Becky brings Bodger from the kitchen and holds him on Nigel’s knee so he can stroke him for the very last time.   Not only me has tears in their eyes.  ‘Look after him, won’t you?’

Nigel heads for the ramp.

‘Thanks for being my family,’ he says to the tearful gathering.  ‘It’s been great.  But I’m off in now.  Look after each other.’

They accompany us outside and crowd the pavement, determined to be with him, to keep sight of him, for as long as they possibly can.

Nigel’s wheelchair is anchored securely.  Becky sits in the front along with her husband Daz who is to do most of the driving.  Craig, Ellie and I take our seats in the back. 

Nigel is excited.  As if we’re about to set off on holiday.  His animation is infectious.  It’s easy to become caught up in the atmosphere and forget what is actually happening.  He waves at everybody standing outside the motorhome.  They wave back, enthusiastically.  Smiling.  Crying.  The enormity of the situation is lost on nobody.

Just before we leave, Nigel’s eyes meet with his brother Les’.  Their gaze locks for but a single second.  Then, after the slightest moment, they exchange an almost imperceptible nod.  That simple nod holds all of their past, all of their understanding.   It is one of the most profoundly touching gestures I have ever seen. 

‘Come on, let’s do it,’ he says to Daz.

And we’re off.

Never having been much of a camping fan, I’m surprised at the noise, at the rattle of pots and pans and the degree of swaying motion – like being on a small boat in a rough sea.  I had foolishly imagined being able to wander about, make a cup of tea and a sandwich and generally feel at home.  Not a bit of it.  In your seat - seatbelt on – is the only way to travel safely inside one of these things.

So it is for the next twenty gruelling hours.  Nigel sleeps most of the way, Craig possibly fifty-percent of it, the rest of us, not at all.  Ellie, like Daz, an experienced driver on Europe’s motorways relieves him of his driving duties for a few short hours but he rests rather than sleeps.

23 April 2017 - The Hotel

It is a disheveled, bleary-eyed, bunch of weary travellers that arrive at Zurich’s most luxurious – ‘celebrities stay here don’t you know’ - hotel, at about three-o-clock the following day.

‘Bloody hell!  The car park is full of Porches and Bentleys!  You can’t take this thing in there!’ cries Ellie in horror.

‘We must look like tramps in ‘Breaking Bad’s’ meth wagon,’ laughs Craig, alighting from the vehicle with the intention of guiding Daz into the crowded car park.

A horrified, trying desperately to remain polite, Concierge, puts a stop to that.  Craig quickly explains that we are in fact, guests, rather than gypsies who have wandered unwittingly away from the allocated laybys for waifs and strays.  The Concierge, whose training in coping with all manner of patrons is clearly superb, skillfully directs us to park this abomination at the back.

Undisguised relief floods the Concierge’s features when I explain that ‘our driver’ is not actually staying for more than half-an-hour, but he would merely like some refreshment before his arduous journey recommences.  Poor Daz.

We take our stinking bodies into the sumptuous and lavish lobby for a complimentary drink before being ushered to our rooms.

The addition of a mobile hoist and disabled shower chair that I had ordered separately for Nigel are there in the room that boasts ‘disabled facilities.’   But there is too much furniture, a settee and two armchairs, which will restrict Nigel’s movement in his wheelchair, and no grab rail in the toilet.  Both are dealt with immediately.  I also request six more pillows that should enable us to prop Nigel up safely on the bed. 

It doesn’t matter how much you are prepared to pay, how exclusive the hotel, how talented your Carer … when Nigel is taken away from his fully equipped, customized, disabled-compatible haven that he enjoys at home, the devastating degree of his disabilities become evident.

This isn’t going to be easy, I think, a little anxiously.  One look at Ellie’s face tells me she’s thinking the same. 

But nothing can dampen Nigel’s spirits.

‘We’re gonna get to sleep in the same bed for the first time in years,’ he grins, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

‘Don’t you be getting any ideas,’ I laugh.

The Doctor

He’s young.  About thirty-five.  Quite a bit younger than I expected.  Although why I should have formulated any expectations I can’t imagine. 

He appears nervous.  Perhaps that’s our fault.  After all, we have him surrounded. 

In anticipation of his visit, we place a single dining chair for his use in the space the removed furniture once occupied.  He’s exactly on time.  Well, the Swiss are punctual I understand.  Craig, Ellie and Becky are perched on the edge of the bed, whilst Nigel, in his wheelchair, flanks one side of him, me the other.  All we need is a spotlight and the theme tune to ‘Mastermind’ and we can intimidate him fully.

This is of course all part of the procedure.  Nigel must see the same doctor twice.  First tonight, and again tomorrow.  

I assume he’s the doctor who gave Nigel the ‘green light’.  He seems to know his story.

He apologizes for his English – which is perfect – and says,

‘Mr Casson, I must ask you some questions.  Please answer truthfully.’

‘Of course,’ says Nigel.

‘OK, OK, OK,’ says the Doctor, in a faltering, broken and slightly breathless manner, as if unsure about what to say.

I exchange glances with the kids.  We hang on his every word.

‘Do you understand exactly what it is that you have requested to happen?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, OK, OK.’ 

Perhaps he really is nervous.   ‘Do you understand what will happen if it goes ahead?’

‘Yes.’

More OKs.

‘Have you been coerced in any way in making this request?

‘No.’

‘OK, OK, OK.’ 

Getting a tad irritating,

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK,’ he says, as we now expect, and stands up and shakes Nigel’s hand.  ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow.’

‘OK,’ echoes Nigel, smiling.  ‘Thank you.’

I see him to the door and thank him for coming.

‘Is that it?’ says Craig.

‘I thought he was going to cry,’ says Becky.

‘Maybe it’s his first time,’ says Ellie.

‘Not a bad hourly rate,’ says Nigel, who still hasn’t got over the cost of the doctor’s visits.

‘Let’s have a drink,’ is my suggestion.

Our perfect day.

It’s a glorious day.  The hotel’s golf course is soaked in shimmering sunshine, the lake in the distance, a sparkling jewel nestled amongst the mountains, glistens like glass.

We occupy a whole corner section of the exquisitely furnished and calming terrace where we eat a delicious lunch washed down with a simply divine wine.

‘I think we should order another bottle of that,’ says Nigel. 

Nobody argues.  It sounds like an excellent plan for the afternoon. 

‘Mr Personality, wasn’t so bad today, was he?’ I say, the wine perhaps having pacified any potential criticism that I might have made regarding the doctor’s second visit this morning.  He did seem a little more confident as he asked the same questions of Nigel as he had the previous evening.   

‘I will write the prescription today,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Nigel, pleased.  Obviously passed the test.

‘Look after your family,’ the doctor said to me, kindly but unnecessarily, as I accompanied him to the door.

‘He still looked a bit like he was going to cry though,’ says Becky. 

We while away the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the views, the company and yet another bottle of wine, until, reluctantly we must leave this lovely terrace to return to our room.  The escort is due any minute.

The escort is one of two people from DIGNITAS who will be with Nigel at his accompanied suicide tomorrow.

Now he really is Mr Personality, I think, as an enthusiastic, smiling Kurt introduces himself to all of us.  He is around fifty, with a craggy but animated face and kind, intelligent eyes.  He is dressed casually, has a relaxed demeanor and smells faintly of tobacco.   For some reason I have a vision of him tramping round India in flip-flops.  He looks the type.

His English is, of course, perfect.

He warmly shakes Nigel’s hand.

‘We find that it helps people to meet with one of us the day before,’ he explains thoughtfully.

Always nice to meet your murderer, I think, unfairly.

‘It can be quite daunting of course, and it’s so much better if you can feel relaxed.’

Following a few minutes of polite chitchat Kurt then asks very similar questions of Nigel as the doctor and he goes on to explain what will happen tomorrow.  There is a discussion regarding how Nigel intends to take the barbiturate.   Swallow? Intravenously?  Gastric tube?  He emphasizes that Nigel must be able to do it himself.  He cannot be helped.

‘I knew this would come in useful for something,’ says Nigel as he lifts his shirt and shows Kurt the gastric tube into his stomach.

‘Excellent,’ says Kurt, examining it.  ‘Yes, we have something that will connect the syringe easily to that.

All smiles from Nigel.

‘Can you press a button?’

‘Yes,’

‘Excellent.’

I catch Craig’s eye.  He looks at me as it to say, ‘This is so bloody weird …’

I have to agree.

‘So, eleven o-clock tomorrow.  I’ll see you all then,’

We remain in the room for the rest of the evening, acutely aware that this is our final night, together, as a family.   We laugh a lot, share some precious memories, and try not to talk about tomorrow.   Nigel tells Craig, Ellie and Becky, his three kids lounging on the bed, how proud he is of them, how much he loves them.  He tells us all not to be sad.  To try and be happy, when he is gone.

He reinforces his own happiness at his decision.  He is ready.  This is what he wants.

We have all prepared a personal tribute to Nigel for his memorial do and we share these with him now.   Then Nigel shares with us the message he has written for the congregation and none of us can prevent the tears from flowing freely.

It has been a lovely day.  A day filled with laughter and tears.  A special, unique day that has strengthened the bond we share and prepared us for what we will face tomorrow.   We will never forget it. 

Our perfect day.

25 April 2017

‘Good morning, darling.  How do you feel?’

‘I feel good,’ says Nigel.

‘Do you feel nervous?’

‘Not really.’

There is no sunshine today.  The dark, leaden sky obscures the mountains and hangs heavily and gloomily above the golf course. 

It seems appropriate.

Craig, Ellie and Becky join us just as room service arrives with a magnificent, mouth-watering breakfast.

‘A change in the weather,’ says Nigel pleasantly to the waitress as she sets the table.

‘Yes,’ she smiles, ‘Swiss weather is always changing – it’s like a girl’s mood.’

We pick at the food.  None of us can face it.

Nigel asks Ellie if she would mind giving him a shower.   A shower relaxes him.  He thanks her for the care she has given in the past, but especially on this trip.

‘You’ve been an absolute boon,’ he says.

‘Eh?’ says Ellie, offended.  She’s never heard the expression before and instantly assumes it’s one of her Dad’s insults.

He laughs as he explains it to her.  It lightens the mood.

We dress Nigel carefully.  He wants to look nice.  His chosen T-shirt, brought especially to be worn today, bears the words:

‘Made in England.  1954.’

‘Right, let’s do it,’ he says, when we are all ready.

Becky takes a selfie of us all as we head for the lobby to wait for the taxi.  Our final family photograph.

The taxis arrive on time.  The wheelchair accessible taxi for Nigel and me is small and it takes some shoving to get Nigel’s big chair securely inside it. 

‘Watch his tube!’ Craig cries in a bit of a panic as the driver straps the seat belt tightly across his stomach.   ‘He’s going to need that.’

Our driver doesn’t speak English but that doesn’t prevent him from chattering away in all the other languages that he does actually speak whilst he cheerfully carries us to our destination.  I recognize a word that sounds very much like ‘physiotherapy’ and realize that he’s referring to the address given to us by DIGNITAS.  Apparently the place where we are going used to be a physiotherapy studio.  The driver believes it still is.

Suddenly, in the skies above us, a united formation of jets, like the Red Arrows, sweep in a dramatic arc right in front of the car.    ‘Look!  Look!’ says our vivacious driver, in one of his languages.  I guess at the words ‘military’ and ‘training.’

I like to think the display was a salute to Nigel.

Shortly, the clouds having given way to rain, we arrive at the blue house.  It is a unit within an industrial estate, just beyond Lidl.

Kurt is waiting for us.  He waves.  Smiles.

I pay the driver and he hands me his card, pointing at the phone number.  For the return trip, he signals.  I nod politely and smile.  If only.

‘Did you see the jets?’ asks Craig.

‘Yes, they were great.’

‘We thought it was just for you Dad,’ he says.

Kurt cordially welcomes us all and shakes Nigel’s hand.  He guides us inside the building and introduces us to Suzanne, his colleague.  She looks like somebody’s Mum.  She’s wearing a pale blue twin-set and A-line skirt.  Her smile is warm and genuine as she says ‘hello’ to each of us in turn.

There is nothing clinical about the place.  It is clean and simply furnished.  A small settee and chairs are grouped around a coffee table bearing a jug of water, drinking glasses and Swiss chocolates.  There is a bed to the side, a scenic picture on the wall, and a dining table at the back.   

Suzanne offers us tea or coffee. 

I request a coffee.

It’s all very odd.

Kurt invites us to sit as Nigel wheels his way into the centre of the room.   Becky pours a glass of water.   We look at each other.  Don’t know quite what to say.  Nigel raises his eyebrows and pulls the kind of face you pull when you’ve just done something a bit naughty – like fart in a lift.

‘OK, this is what is going to happen,’ says Kurt, getting down to business.

He explains that there is paperwork to be done first and confirms with Nigel that he can still sign his name, or make a mark.  When that’s done, assuming Nigel wants to go ahead with the accompanied suicide (he can still change his mind), an anti-emetic drug will be administered via Nigel’s tube.  This prevents him from being sick once he takes the lethal drug.    Whilst waiting for the anti-emetic to take effect, we will have 20 to 30 minutes together, where Kurt and Suzanne will leave us alone and wait in the other room until Nigel is ready.   There is a speaker on the table that can receive the music that Nigel wants to listen to via Bluetooth.

We all nod, politely.  As if we had just been given the housekeeping instructions for the fire exits and loos.

So it begins.

Kurt then asks Nigel, yet again, if he wants to do this today.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you understand what will happen?’

‘Yes.’

‘After a few minutes, you will go to sleep and you will not wake up.’

‘Yes.’

‘It always works.  It has never failed.’

‘Good.’

‘Is this what you want?’

‘Yes.’

I exchange that, ‘this is bloody weird’ look with the kids.

It takes Nigel five interminable minutes to sign the paperwork.  He can barely hold a pen.  He could have made it easier for himself by simply scribbling a mark, but no, he painstakingly attempts a flourishing signature on every single page.

The anti-emetic is administered. 

‘Call us when you’re ready,’ says Kurt as he and Suzanne disappear.

This is it.  It’s happening.

‘Anybody want a chocolate?’ says someone, filling the silence.

‘What music do you want Nigel?’ I ask, now we know that the last thing anybody wants is a chocolate.

‘What about Enigma?’

‘That’s all we bloody need,’ says Craig.

Ellie finds Enigma on her phone and sends it the speaker on the table.  The strangely soothing and poignant strains of ‘Sadness’ fill the room.

This is our time.  Now.  Our moment.  Our last ‘goodbye.’

Time for each one of us to hold him, to love him, to help him on his way.  Time to share with him our final, personal message, the last words that he will ever hear.

Craig first.  Then Ellie.  Then Becky.  Then me.

Those twenty or thirty minutes fly by much too quickly.  We can’t hold it together any more.  We can’t hang onto our composure.  Craig cradles his sisters in his arms and tries to comfort them.  We hold each other’s hands, stroke each other’s backs in the hope that the touch, the gesture, will help.

‘Bring them back in,’ says Nigel.  ‘I’m ready.’

Kurt and Suzanne return with a contraption bearing a syringe that holds the lethal barbiturate and places it on a table within Nigel’s reach.  Kurt attaches the tube leading from the syringe into Nigel’s gastric tube.

‘When you’re ready Nigel, press the red button.’

‘I’ve always wanted to press the red button,’ he jokes.

‘Ready?’ says Kurt.

‘Ready,’ says Nigel.  ‘Oh, wait.  Can I have a penny to pay the Ferryman?’

‘Ferryman?’

‘Yes, to cross the river Styx.’

‘Of course!  Yes, here.  Look, I have some English coins.’

Nigel gratefully takes a coin and tucks it in a fold of his T-Shirt.’

‘Right.  Go for it,’ he says.

Without hesitation, smiling, he reaches up and presses the button.  We watch, in complete silence, as the contraption closes the syringe and pushes the barbiturate into Nigel’s body.

We have just moments left.

We surround him, holding onto him, completely unable to let go. 

I wrap my arms around his neck and gently kiss his cheek.

‘I love you,’ I whisper.

‘I love you too.’ 

I softly kiss his brow and, through my tears, look, for the final time, into his eyes.   There is no sadness there, no fear.   There is resolve, acceptance, and love.

‘Be happy Julie.’

I cling to him.  Craig, Ellie and Becky cling to him.

And then, far, far too soon, it’s time to let go.

One final kiss.

One last smile …

Then, a half laugh, a smile … ‘I’m feeling sleepy…’

… And, the man I have loved with all my heart, for forty-two wonderful years, is gone.