Lao 1

We Linger At the Exit

No one tells you that one day youll have to write your parents obituary. They

dont tell you about the smell of death and illness and how it hangs on your clothes long

after you leave their hospital bedside. I suppose they dont tell you a lot of things. They

dont tell you because whoever they are went through it too and no one wants to

remember that. Now, here I am, in a Swiss apartment, staring out the window as the

sharp lines of the Swiss Alps cut into the sky. Im also writing my fathers obituary,

making arrangements, and settling any outstanding debts with friends or familymy

dad is not making any of this easier.

Young Jonathan Clark was a bright and beautiful boy with talent unending

Dad, I am not writing that!

Just hear me out, son. This is going to work if you just listen.

Dad pats down his untidy gray strands of hair and leans over the end of his bed

reaching down for papers in his briefcase. I reach down to give him the whole briefcase

and he slaps my hand away.

I dont need the whole damn thing, he says. I just need a few papers. One in

particular should help you with my obituary. He spreads a stack of papers across his

lap and leans over the bed again to reach for his briefcase. The white bed sheet over his

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legs stretches taut and the papers on his lap scatter to the ground. Dammit! Why are

you not helping me?

Dad, youre not the easiest person to help, I say, as I pick up his papers from

the ground. You want people to help you your way and not the best way they know

how.

Dont be dramatic. It does something ugly to your face.

I toss the papers on his lap and sit down on the chair by his bed. I look out the

window and watch small white specks float to the ground. The heavy November rain

has stopped and soon December will spread its snowy white blanket over Switzerland.

Ok, I found it. I wrote it when I was 24, but it should still apply.

Dad hands me a warn article clipping titled, Song of Myself, from his college

newspaper. Are you serious, Dad?

Of course! Its appropriate, he says. Hes pointing at the article in my hand,

his index finger almost brushing my nose. I just want to slap his hand down, but I dont.

The editors wanted me to write about myself, so I did. Youll find some great material

there. I wrote it when I was at my best. Dad leans his head against the headboard and

closes his eyes. I imagine hes thinking about his best moments at Cornell: Delivering

the valedictorian speech, marrying Mom during his senior year, and the attention he had

received from selling his first novel while still in college. Actually, I dont think he

remembers most of his college experience anymore.

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Dad, you wrote it when you were at your most egocentric. I wish you would

just let me write this on my own, the way its traditionally done. Why wont you let me

write it?

His head is still against the head board and his eyes are closed. I can see his eyes

dart back and forth under his veiny eyelids. He says, Flourish, son, flourish. You cant

create it like I can.

Flourish is what makes my father a bestselling science fiction author. He creates

elaborate fantasies that weave into the imagination of his readers. After thirty years and

fifty novels hes gained money, awards, media attention, and the love and respect of

fans. Critics and scholars admire his controlled, tight lines, which retain Dads

grandiose and dramatic flair. He could be the love child of Lord Byron and Hemingway.

If Hemingway only revealed one-eighth of the iceberg, my dad held the whole damn

iceberg above his head. Dads right. I have no flourish. I rather leave part of my iceberg

hidden.

We differ on the way we write, on our beliefs, and now on the best way to die.

Ok, so continuing, Young Jonathan Clark was a bright and beautiful boy with

talent unending

Dad, that just sounds so ostentatious, I say.

This is my last opportunity to sound ostentatious. Please, let me do a good job

of it.

Lao 4

Dad, I have to pick up Uncle James from the airport. Well have to finish this

ridiculous conversation later.

Fine, while you do that Ill call your mother and tell her how youre bullying

your father on his death bed. Dad leans up from the headboard and pats down his

ruffled hair. He picks up his cell phone and grins.

Dad, youre not dead yet. I smile back and walk out the door. For a moment, I

think of dialing the number for him, but I dont and walk out into the cold air. Mom

could use a break too.

At the Zurich airport pick up, I pull up in front of a tall, heavyset man. He looks

about 65. His small head sinks into the broad shoulders of his black leather trench coat.

He has gray hair like Dad, slicked back into greasy straight strands. Ive never met him

in person. Ive only see his comments on the margins of Dads drafts or seen his face in

family pictures.

Two years ago, when I found myself taking milk cartons out of my fathers

oven, I found errors in his manuscripts. My father is strict about who proofreads his

work and only allows three people to look at a first draft manuscript; his wife who

happens to be his assistant, me, and his brother. Uncle James is an editor from New

York and next to Mom, hes the only one Dad will consult with over the phone about

his work. He doesnt even talk to his paid editor that much.

Im only allowed to touch a first draft Clark because Im a published writer-It

has nothing to do with being his son. A first draft manuscript for Jonathan Clark is a

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nearly polished and complete work of art that has been proofread by him and retyped

more than once. The manuscript he gave me two years ago had so many errors I

thought he was playing a trick on me. I noticed his name was missing from the title

page, as if he didnt have the letters in his mind to make something up and I then I knew

he wasnt joking.

Uncle James leans into my window and the green peppery smell of Clive

Christian cologne enters my nose and eyes. I turn away and cough and he leans back out

of the car. I apologize, he says. I forgot how strong this stuff is in enclosed spaces.

For $300 you can buy a battering ram in a bottle. You must be Michael. Nice to finally

meet you. He reaches his gloved hand inside the car and we shake.

Before I have a chance to step out and help him with his bag he puts his small

black suitcase in the back seat and hops in the front seat.

I open the windows a little, despite the cold air. Uncle James turns to me and

smiles. So, Michael, how are you? I havent seen you since you were pooping in your

pants.

I know it sounds bad, but dont really remember you.

Uncle James looks out the window. Green hills and mountains roll by in a blur.

Well, I dont exactly come by for family gatherings. Jonathan and I have more of a

professional relationship. He flips open the visor mirror and pats his hair down. I will

tell you this; I am completely against this whole thing. I know he wants his way. Im

stubborn too. I respect his wishes, but I just think hes insane.

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It takes him a moment to register what hes said. When he realizes, he shakes his

head and smiles.

Well I think weve established that, I say.

We pass the Limmat River, flanked by wooded hills and drive through idyllic

towns. Tall Romanesque church towers jut from between pastel guild houses every few

blocks. The apartment is in an industrial area away from residential homes and

businesses.

A nurse opens the door for us and she holds back a cough as Uncle James walks

past her.

We walk into my Dads room and find him on the phone. The volume is up all

the way and I can hear Moms voice. He smiles, pats his hair down, and waves us away.

Did you dial the number for him? I ask the nurse. She nods.

James and I settle in the living and play checkers.

I wish Mom was here. I know why she cant be. I dont think I would be able to

watch my soul mate die either.

We knew Dad was sick. For two years we all tried to ignore it, tried to piece

together the fragments of Dad that made sense, but it didnt make him whole again. One

night I took a late flight from Switzerland and came back home to our New York

brownstone. The door was open. Inside apples and potatoes were scattered on the

kitchen floor. The back porch door was open and I could hear mumbling in the yard.

Lao 7

The motion sensor light came on and I could see Dad sitting on the ground, writing in

his yellow notepad.

I couldnt find my office, he said. He looked up at me and back down at the

scribbling in his notepad. I dont actually think this says anything. I thought it did.

What I remember most was that his shoes were on backwards and he had his

good suit on.

A few days later, Mom saw him wandering around the neighborhood. She

installed a complicated lock on the door so his wandering was contained to the

backyard. I found him sitting in the begonias, Michael, she said.

What was he doing? I asked.

Nothing, I told you, he was just sitting in the begonias. A smile started to peak out of

the corner of her mouth.

Well, you know he always did hate begonias. With that we both looked at

each other and laughed. My mother took my hand and squeezed it as if telling me it

would all be alright.

I really wanted to believe her.

The doctor confirmed Alzheimer's. His symptoms began to rapidly progress

after two more years. Its hard to place people with Alzheimers into a particular stage.

Symptoms overlap and sometimes there are long stretches of time when symptoms

seem to disappear, but they always come back. After four years, Dad could no longer

Lao 8

type or write but my fathers mind still swirled with stories and characters, so he would

dictate entire manuscripts to my mother who would type them.

Three months ago in the office of his New York high rise he stared out of the

window and watched snowflakes flutter on the wind. I sat on his couch proofreading,

occasionally raising my red pen but eventually lowering it. I loved to watch his eyes

follow the red pen and his head cock to the side in curious distress at the thought that

mother may have typed an error.

Could you have found anything more garish than a red pen? he said.

No, I dont think so. I did try though. I smiled as I continued to threaten his clean

crisp pages.

My father turned back to the window to watch the snow fall. You know, its

not even the thousand little indignities that scare me. I want it all to end when my

stories end.

What? I looked up from the manuscript not sure I had heard him correctly.

I write, therefore I am, father said, not looking away from the window.

What are you talking about, Dad?

Nothing. Finish your work son, I dont have all day.

My father didnt say a word after that and neither did I. I finished proofreading

his last few chapters. He had one chapter left to revise. Together we watched the snow

cover the city in a white blanket, the smell of my mothers hot chocolate and cookies

filling the house with warmth and color.

Lao 9

After an hour, Dad yells from the bedroom, JAMES! Get in here. Uncle James

and I end our game of checkers.

Here, Your Highness. I have the final edits of your final chapter. Uncle James

hands a manuscript to Dad. Dad glances at the manuscript and throws it at the end of the

bed.

Laura just made some great changes. I went over them with her but I really

need her here to get this all settled.

Well, dont thank me all at once, Jonathan. I dont think my modesty can take

it, Uncle James says. He looks annoyed and pats his hair down while he watches a

young Swedish nurse prepare medication for my father.

Dad, Mom didnt want to come. She specifically said she didnt want to watch

you die, I said.

Your mother really knows how to come through when I need her. The nurse

hands dad aspirin and small cup of water. Uncle James watches her exit the room.

Dad, you may have control over when and how you die but you have no right to make

Mom go through this if she said she didnt want to.

Son, I didnt convince her to do something she was already planning on doing.

She was calling me from her flight. She should be here in a few hours. Those in-flight

calls are dammed expensive.

Dad, I dont

Lao 10

Oh, I told you your mother was coming right? Yeah, Dad, I say. Thats

really nice. At least she can be here with you when it happens. Mom is stubborn

herself; maybe she does want to be here.

My father and mother have known each other since high school and were in fact

high school sweethearts. They both went to Cornell and as campus tradition dictates

they kissed on the North Campus suspension bridge, assuring themselves a long future

together. After fifteen years, my father would say they were still a delightful clich of

domestic delight as he looked at my mothers eyes like a teenager in love. She became

his assistant, writing back to fans, setting up interviews and meetings, and organizing

his work. She would tell fans she had to become his assistant because they realized

they couldnt spend a moment apart; one was useless without the other. She would tell

friends she had to become his assistant because she wanted to keep all the literary

groupies or lit lizards away, as she called them. I believed both reasons even though

my father never gave my mother reason to think he would ever do something as

undignified as cheat on the love of his life.

My mother is an amazing poet in her own right with a list of awards and body of

work to rival my fathers. She never made it seem like she was compromising her own

work for his, instead she would say his work complemented hers.

In the morning, a light knock on the door wakes me and I jump off the couch.

Im sorry to wake you, honey, Mom says. Behind her, the asphalt is slick with dirty

snow and rain. Her brown hair hangs in wet strings around her face. Stupid me for not

Lao 11

thinking I needed my umbrella. I thought the rain was over now. Mom, its so good to

see you again. I hug her and feel the bones under her skin. Im afraid to squeeze too

tight because she feels so delicate.

She walks into Dads room and sits by him. Together we watch his belly move

up and down under the crisp white blanket. His breathing is steady but shallow. I watch

the lines of Moms forehead crease and the deep pools of brown in her eye glisten. She

looks so sad.

Mom, why are you here? You said you couldnt handle this. You fought with

Dad so much before he left. I really thought you wouldnt come.

Mom takes Dads hand and traces each finger with her thumb. You remember when I

became sick with cancer five years ago and beat it? Of course you remember, how

dumb of me. It left me so weak. I felt empty and hungry as if I could eat a whole planet

and not be fulfilled. Mom tucks the sheet under Dad and pats his unruly strands of hair

down. He was there when I needed him. He may be a little domineering but I still love

him.

Mom, hes more than a little domineering. Youre here so you can help him

finish the damn book.

His work is a good distraction for the both of us. Thats my choice. The rest of

this decision is his. She looked away from Dad and out the window.

For most people, this isnt a choice they even think about, I say.

Your father isnt most people.

Lao 12

On my visit several weeks ago I found envelopes and brochures on the hallway

table from a company called Dignitas in Sweden. I knew things were bad, but I never

thought they would consider a nursing home. They had never mentioned moving to

Switzerland to me but since I was a working there I assumed it made sense for both of

them to be closer to me. I grew angry at them for not telling me their plans as if this was

a pain only they shared.

I went into the kitchen as she was putting her last batch of cookies in the oven.

A good line takes time to bake, but smells so sweet once it rises she said. My mother

loved baking as much as she loved poetry. They were the same to her. Whats wrong

dear?

Mom, why didnt you tell me you were going to put dad in a nursing home?

And why so far away from home? I can come back to New York and write here.

Dear, I would never put your father in a nursing home. Why do you think

that?

I saw brochures for some clinic in Switzerland called Dignitas and I just

thought My mothers eyes began to glaze and she looked down and then to the

kitchen where my father sat at the table inspecting the paper, no longer able to make

sense of the jumble of words that melted into themselves.

Michael, hes not going to a nursing home. I, or rather we wanted to wait to tell

you, at least until there were no more options left.

Lao 13

No more options? I looked down at the Dignitas brochure and read the tagline:

To Live with Dignity, To Die with Dignity. The brochure described the process of

legal assisted suicide in Switzerland for those with a terminal or progressive illness that

will end in death. For three thousand dollars and after a mountain of legal paperwork

and medical appointments, Dignitas will assist with suicide but not the final act itself.

My father would die in a Swedish flat in some industrial town so someone could hand

him a cup of poison. You cant be serious? I said.

Dad began to rustle and his eyes opened.

Laura, your hair is wet, he said. He ran his fingers through her damp hair.

Son, get your mother a towel. Laura, read the last lines of the chapter again. I cant

remember how the line goes. Mom reaches into her bag and unclips one sheet from a

large manuscript.

Mom does not look at the sheet as she recites the last line, When all our limbs

vanish and we linger at the exit, I will stop and turn to wish you well, my friend, and a

happy journey.

I know you think Im selfish, Dad said. Im doing this for you and your

mother. Dad sits up and the rising sun filters through the rain drops on the window,

casting a small spectrum of color on Dads cheek. I have the right to say goodbye to

this world how I want.

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Dad, you dont have the right to make us go through this, dragging Mom and

Uncle James out here to watch you showboat to your own death. This is not dying with

dignity, Dad. I hate you for doing this to us!

You dont mean that, son.

No, he doesnt, Mom says. We all need to calm down, well wake James.

He needs to wake up. Where is that nurse? She should be here now. Father

pats his hair down and leans out of bed to look around mom who is blocking the view of

the living room. I cant even remember your name sometimes. I hate the stink of this

disease. My stories are gone. Son, once the story is over, its time to close the book.

Remember that. Never linger longer than you have to, its undignified.

Dad, you cant order your way to a dignified death. I love you, but Im sorry,

you dont know anything about dignity. An element of modesty and selflessness comes

with dignity. You need to care more about others and what you do to them than

yourself.

Well, Im sorry you feel that way. I love you and your mother. I love your

mother so much, that I dont want her to suffer here alone. Thats why I asked her to

come with me. Dad looks at mother and smiles.

Uncle James is standing in the doorway, shaking his head.

You are insane, he said. Laura, I know its none of my business but I

seriously hope youre not considering this.

Mom? I say.

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Mom looks at me and back at Dad, Ive been feeling worse every day. I know

my cancer will return. I just think with your father, it may be a good time

A knock on the door cuts Mom off. James opens the door and two nurses enter.

Hello, God Morgon! I see many family members. This is good, ja? Mr. Clark

today is the day. Are you ready? The older nurse looks at Dad who nods back. Well, I

must ask again if you are sure you want to do this.

Dad nods Yes, Im ready, he says. He grabs Moms hand and squeezes.

The nurse explains everything that will happen. My father must lift a cup full of

a lethal dose of barbiturate to his mouth and drink it in one gulp. He will fall asleep

within ten minutes, and then move into coma, and finally he will simply stop breathing.

Before he drinks the barbiturate they ask him several times if he is sure he wants to die.

After he drinks, they give him orange juice and chocolate to naturalize the bitter taste.

They also have a camera and several witnesses present. Its all very formal. He will not

rage, rage, against the dying of his light, instead he gets a cup of orange juice and a

quiet room full of gentle Swiss assistants.

My father confirms his choice one more time and the nurse walks to the kitchen

to prepare the barbiturate. She returns and hands him a plastic cup full of a milky drink.

She touches his shoulders and asks again, You know if you drink this you will die, ja?

Dad nods. I love you James, he says. James leans in and gives Dad a kiss on the

cheek. Michael, I hope one day youll understand. I love you too.

I give Dad a hug, kiss him on the cheek and look away.

Lao 16

Laura

I cant come with you, Mom says.

I know. I love you. Will you read me a poem while I sleep?

Of course, I wrote a new one called, The Bitter Taste of Farewell.

How appropriate, he says. As Mom reads, Dad drinks down the barbiturate in

one gulp. He takes a piece of chocolate from the nurse and drinks down the cup of

orange juice she gives him. He pats his hair down one last time, straightens his pajama

shirt and leans against the headboard. His eyes are closed. Outside a thin coating of

snow covers the slick black asphalt.