What is the date you began writing this memoir and the date when you completed the memoir? I started writing this memoir in 2015 or so – it was when I realized that Alan was seriously ill, and that he probably wouldn’t survive his illness.
I finished writing this memoir in December 2021, almost two years after Alan died. That was the date my publisher set for turning in my manuscript. And when I did it, all the grief I had been channeling into writing erupted all over my lap.
Where did you do most of your writing for this memoir? And please describe in detail. I have a home office, right off my dining room. It’s a small room, but it has beautiful birch floors and windows that let in lots of natural light. There are no curtains on the windows, and they look out over some viburnum and honeysuckle bushes to a grassy yard with a flowering crab apple tree that blooms each April with masses of fuchsia flowers. I would love to be able to tell you that this home office is a well-organized and orderly space where all my tools are at my fingertips and where my imagination can range without inhibition. But if I did tell you that, I would be lying. My office is a disorganized mess. Everyone in my family had messy offices, so I think it must be an inherited trait. Mostly, I manage to keep the area behind me neat enough that I am not embarrassed on Zoom calls.
What were your writing habits while writing this memoir- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I typed my story directly into the laptop that sits on my desk, mostly in moments I stole from my caregiving duties: when Alan napped, or when a friend came over to spend time with him. I had joined a small group of women who were writing memoirs, which kept me accountable for regularly producing new vignettes about Alan. Mornings when I write, I drink decaf coffee, and the rest of the day I drink water. I seldom listen to music, as I’m partial to bird song and quiet.
encouraged Joyce Tubbs Kelly to write the memoir.
Click on the below link to visit Nana Mizushima’s Facebook Page
https://www.facebook.com/nana.mizushima
Out of all the specific memories you write about in this memoir, which ONE MEMORY was the most emotional for you to write about? And can you share that specific excerpt with us here. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer, and please provide page numbers or Chapter number as references. The most emotional memory was Alan drinking the cocktail that would end his life. I started the memoir with this memory and then moved on to describe how we met and fell in love. Then I circled back to his death day near the end of the book and described it in more detail.
Chapter 1, pages 1-4
January 11, 2020
Willie Nelson crooned a lament from an iPad in the next room as Alan took the deadly cocktail from Beverly’s outstretched hands. When Alan let go of my hand to reach for the mug, I shook some feeling back into my cramped fingers, which Alan had been gripping as if his life depended on it. Beverly, our housemate and friend, had prepared the beverage Alan would drink to end his life, mixing the prescription powder with apple juice according to the pharmacist’s instructions. I had talked her into taking on this task because I wanted to spend every minute of Alan’s last conscious hours with him, at his bedside, not in the kitchen fretting over details. And now the poison was ready to drink. Beverly made sure Alan had a good grip on the mug before she let go.
Two members of Alan’s hospice team—tall and lanky Josh, whose arms teemed with tattoos, and sweet, petite Cara—had stopped by our house earlier to give Alan a sponge bath. When he was clean, I had helped them dress him in his fire-engine-red pullover. He looked almost chipper, as if he might jump out of bed and make lunch for our assembled guests. Never mind that it wasn’t even a remote possibility at that point, given that Alan couldn’t stand up or even sit upright in his wheelchair for very long—he looked so dapper, anything seemed possible.
How could this kind and funny man, this beloved husband of mine, be about to end his life?
Alan’s eyes, brimming with love and gratitude, locked on mine momentarily before he took a slug of the cocktail. I had been dreading this moment for weeks, but I was determined to be strong for Alan. I wanted to sink to the floor and keen, but I couldn’t do it now. It would have to wait until everyone was gone, especially Alan.
His reaction to that first gulp was as swift as it was vehement: “Yuck! This tastes disgusting!” He spit the straw out of his mouth as if a wasp had stung his tongue.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I can’t tell you whether his daughters laughed or not. Or our minister, who hovered in the background. At that moment, I was tuned to Alan’s wavelength, and everything else was static.
The pharmacist’s instructions had been clear: Once the powder—composed of diazepam, digoxin, morphine, and propranolol—was mixed with liquid, it had to be consumed within two minutes or it would start to solidify. After another minute, it would be too solid to drink. They didn’t send us any extra powder for a do-over.
Leaning in closer, I reminded Alan, “Sweetie, if you want to die, you need to drink it now, even if it tastes awful.” A spark of hope exploded like fireworks in the back of my brain: Maybe the repulsive taste will make him change his mind!
For weeks I’d been waiting for Alan’s determination to waver. You know, maybe I’ll hang around for another week, or maybe another month, I imagined him saying. I knew he was fed up with being in pain, with the indignities he suffered because he couldn’t take care of his own body, with not being able to talk clearly enough for people to understand him. But why was he in such a big rush? He could always ask for more morphine to help him with the physical pain. I didn’t want him to suffer, but even more, I didn’t want him to vanish from my life. I had asked him to postpone his dying until the holidays were over so his daughters, granddaughters, and I would not be mourning every Christmas for the rest of our lives. He had reluctantly agreed, but now, eleven days into the new year, he was impatient to move on. Part of me wished he would at least pretend he was reluctant to die, reluctant to leave me.
From the time I first met him, Alan had proclaimed to anyone who would listen that we treat our pets better than we treat our elders. We euthanize our four-legged family members when their suffering becomes too heavy, so he could not understand why we allowed our human loved ones to endure unbearable pain and unspeakable indignities.
Alan was overjoyed when the voters of Colorado passed the End-of-Life Options Act in 2016, which was before he was diagnosed with a fatal illness. He claimed his worst nightmare was dying of bedsores. It was Alan’s shorthand way of saying he didn’t want to lie in bed—in pain, unable to move, unable to communicate, unable to swallow—for weeks on end, until his heart finally stopped beating. He wanted to die with dignity at a time he chose, at home in his own bedroom, surrounded by family. Which was exactly what he was about to do.
And, despite the fact that he had been my best friend and lover for more than a quarter of a century, my soulmate, my partner in adventures of all sizes and shapes—including making homemade limoncello in Tuscany, hiking through a cloud forest on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, and remodeling a house from top to bottom while living in it—despite the fact that I loved him dearly and did not want him to die, I had helped him get to this point. Maybe I wasn’t exactly the genie in the magic lamp who granted his wish, but he couldn’t have pulled it off if I had refused to help him.
Click on the link below to purchase WALKING HOME: HELPING MY HUSBAND DIE WITH DIGNITY from Amazon
Copyright by Joanne Tubbs Kelly.
Can you describe the emotional process of writing about this ONE MEMORY? I probably edited this one short chapter more times than any other passage in the book. For many months, I cried each time I came back to it, because reliving Alan consuming that cocktail was painful. I knew intellectually that it was a good thing for him to end his suffering and to have a say in how his life ended, but it still broke my heart that he was gone to another dimension. I knew spiritually that he would always be with me, but I desperately wanted him to crawl into bed with me, with skin on, and wrap his arms around me.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? As I edited, I added more than I deleted words from this chapter. For example, at one point, I realized I was missing from the first paragraph, and since I am the narrator, I decided I needed to fix that. That’s when I added the part about him squeezing my fingers
Click on the below link to visit Joanne Tubbs Kelly’s Facebook page