Take the Plunge

The only source of light comes from the street lamps outside, giving the otherwise dark clinic a burnt-orange tint. I keep my hand on the door as it gradually comes to a close, guiding it so as not to slam and awake the patients. The reception area is where most of the cameras are, but I’m still taking a huge risk coming in through the side. That’s fine though; I knew that I could lose my job and face potential jail time the moment I offered Cecelia to do this for her.

I’m confident that I could make my way to the medical cart in the dark, but I take out my phone nonetheless. I catch a glimpse of the time that reads 11:04 p.m. before turning on my phone’s flashlight, making my way through the dimly lit hallway. The thermostat outside the break room reads a crisp seventy degrees, which unsurprisingly does nothing to cool me down. I swear I can literally feel my blood starting to simmer.

I feel like I’m walking in a dream; the closer I get to my destination, the more out of reach it becomes. I can faintly make out the medical cart that sits up against the wall right outside the operating room. Each step feels like I’m dragging bricks of concrete behind me. I come up on the recovery ward and stop, poking my head in through the window. I don’t flash my light all the way in so as not to disturb anyone, but the one-year-old Malinois that came in two nights ago for rat trap poisoning picks up on my presence. We lock eyes, and I stop breathing in fear that he’ll alert the others and cause a domino effect of howling and barking.

But he doesn’t even look all that surprised to see me. His head pivots to his right, checking to see if his companions are seeing this, but all the others are fast asleep, aside from a senior cat named Timmy who came in for dialysis, who doesn’t show any indication that he can see me. I look back at the pup, who’s already laid his head back down over his front paw in show of disinterest. There’s a small part of me that believes he knew not to alert the others of my presence, as if he knew why I was here, but that thought almost immediately gets diminished by logic. He’s quiet because he’s still not feeling well from all the treatments we’ve given him.

I move past the recovery ward and make it to the cart, flashing my light over the keypad as I enter the four-digit code. I hear the doors unlatch and I come down to a squatting position to get the Pentobarbital, which is sitting front and center amongst the dozens of other drugs.

The casual manner of it all feels like a ruse, as if it was planted there solely to test me. How can something that is only used to end life be presented so simply? Unconcealed and unhindered in a row of other pharmaceuticals, as if I were taking my pick of energy drinks at the gas station. I pocket the drug into my jacket before standing and shutting the cart doors. I make my way back, giving one final glance into the recovery ward where I expected the Malinois to look up at me again, but he doesn’t move. I can see his ears twitch, so he must know I’m still here. I wonder again if he somehow knows why I’m here, and this is his way of showing me that what I’m doing is the right thing.

***

I made it back to the house just before midnight. I tried to unlock the front door as quietly as possible, even though I knew Cecelia would be up. I ignored the itching sensation all over my body and made my way upstairs, not even bothering to take off my shoes. My neck and face felt as if they were wrapped in searing hot chains and pulled taut. No matter how many times I tried the inhale-exhale method to calm myself, my breath kept getting cut short, and I started to taste bile in the back of my throat.

I could see light from underneath her door and entered her room without knocking. I look to the left where she was still in her bed, as she is most days. Her peripheral vision had become extremely limited thanks to her new medication, so she hadn’t yet seen me. I make a wide stride towards the front of her bed, gently calling her name to not startle her.

“I was getting worried,” she rasped out. Her voice had grown even thinner over the last month alone, her words now coming out as no more than a whisper.

“All good.” I assure her. I wanted to give her a smile to put her even more at ease, but immediately thought that would come off as too juvenile. I took a moment to look at her, and I swear she looked like she aged ten years in the last hour. Her copper hair sat limply atop her head, fraying and frizzing at the ends. Cecelia always had a thinner, athletic build, but now she looked gaunt, her joints popping out more prominently amongst her pale skin. Her gray eyes were rheumy and unfocused, making her look even more lifeless.

I made my way towards the head of the bed, taking the vial out from my pocket and placing it on the nightstand among the dozens of prescription bottles cluttering the space. Cecelia follows my movements as best she can, but her head only turns so far before she starts to shake. Then again, her whole body shakes most of the time anyway. Hooray for Huntington’s.

I open the top drawer that keeps the sterile needles, taking one out and setting it next to the vial. I turn my body towards the woman who never abandoned me, never made me feel like a burden when everyone else had. And I look at what’s become of her now.

I sat on the bed, looking over her. “I could call her. In case you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.” Her voice was barely there, but I knew it took her all her strength to say it.

“I figured. She’s still your sister, though.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said, “she left you. Left! Just because she didn’t feel like being a mother anymore.” Cecelia’s lip began to quiver, and I started to feel terrible for even bringing up the whole thing. I placed my hand on her shoulder, waiting for her to calm herself.

After a minute or so, she regained her composure, pursing her lips and jutting out her chin. I waited for her to say something, but I guess that was my cue. I wordlessly reached for the vial and needle, uncapping the end and stabbing through the rubber barrier. I pulled the syringe back as far up as it would go, giving it a few taps with the back of my middle finger. Cecelia continued to observe my movements, her face unreadable. She seemed bored with the whole process. I suppose I would be, too. I held the needle in my hand, staring at it, then at her. Her eyes widened slightly, giving plea for me to end her misery.

I started thinking of Timmy, and how he’s still hanging on at eighteen years old taking dialysis. I wondered if he wishes he were dead, or if he’s grateful to be given another chance at life. I wondered if he felt scared in his kennel, surrounded by other scared cats and dogs, not knowing where they are or who these mysterious people are that poke and prod them. Or maybe he has no clue that he’s suffering. Maybe he’s content with his quality of life and has to spend his time in the clinic because his owner decided that was what was best for him.

I looked Cecelia in her eyes now, and I wondered if she felt scared. Her eyes narrowed, as if reading my mind.

“We already talked about this.” Her tone was full of warning. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

I’ve thought of every possible outcome that could happen here. I could push the plunger and walk away for good, never uttering a word about this to anyone. I could turn myself in, because that would be the “right” thing to do, but who the hell am I to debate morals? Or I could refuse. It would make me selfish to allow Cecelia to continue surviving in her misery, but then again, who am I to take her life away? Who is the one who gets to decide any of that?

“Remember what I said.” Her words came out more assuring this time, but no less faint. “I’m no different than any of those animals that come into the clinic. You wouldn’t want them to suffer.” She pauses, drawing in a shaky breath which then brings up a coughing fit, making her look even more pathetic. Eventually it ebbs away, and she swallows before continuing.

“I have no one else. Please, Nat.” She looked like she might cry, and that’s when I realized.

It wasn’t the same as euthanizing any of the dogs and cats at the clinic. When people come in with tears in their eyes, begging for us to help their baby, we are the ones in control. Those creatures don’t know what’s good for them. We’re the ones who make the final decision. Maybe that’s why I got into animal medicine, because at least I wouldn’t have to hear my patients voice their concerns. I never truly knew what my patients were thinking or feeling in their final moments, and it was never anything I had to worry about until Cecelia got sick.

Now though, the decision rests on her, not me. Watching her struggle to breathe and keep her body still is unfathomably more pitiful than seeing an animal at the end of its life, because at least they have a painless way out. Who am I to deny that of the woman who sacrificed everything for me?

I roll up the sleeve of her nightgown, and she seems more alert than ever now. I plunge the needle through her skin, holding my thumb down until every last drop is gone. Once it’s empty, I remove it, setting it on the nightstand. I carefully roll her sleeve back down, watching as her mouth opens and closes.

I didn’t know if she was trying to tell me something, or if she was just struggling to take in her final breaths, but my eyes never left hers, even after they closed.