I thought about going toSwitzerland, but it was too pricey and a bit too soppy. They really go out of their way to give you a dignified and comfortable way out, what with the cheerily furnished room with a view and the kind and supportive atmosphere they provide, but that really isn't my thing.
Now, I'm not against their old fashioned, compassionate approach to providing people with a dignified and painless exit. It just isn't my thing – I wish for something more modern and streamlined. I don't want people hanging about waiting to “help me” do it. No, I want something more modern, without the goody-goody and poignant bits. And I damned sure don't want family and friends witnessing my departure. You know, the prayers and hand holding and “we're here for you, we understand” and all that jazz.
Goodbyes are best kept short, and I've already said adieu to those who matter. No need to drag things out. “Little blue pill and over the hill,” as they say.
A very fine looking young man is standing in front of me. He came from seemingly out of nowhere. I didn't hear a door open, I didn't hear his footsteps. No sound at all - what a wonderful place this is! Could he be a hologram?
'Good afternoon Madame. What can we do for you today?'
I tell him.
'Very well, Madame. Do you have any questions?' He has a very sexy voice.
'No.'
'Then let's begin. I'll send an attendant to assist you onto the couch.'
He turns and silently vanishes from my field of vision and within seconds I hear machine noises from overhead – a hoist of some kind I suppose. Not like the hoists they use to lift me at home or at the “rehab centre.” No rehab going on there – well, not for people with my condition anyhow. Still, it is a place to go to and something to do...
Now a heavy-set middle-aged woman approaches me from my right. I can't hear her footsteps but I can tell from the way she walks that in any other place I would be able to hear her sensible brown brogues softly clopping along. She is dressed in blue jeans and a purple T-shirt and I find it funny – and cheerfully comforting. Who wants to see someone wearing a nurse'suniform turn up to help them check out? I sure as hell don't! She has a nice smile.
'I'll help you onto the couch now, if you would like.'
Yes, I would like. I've been in one power-chair or another for almost twenty years now and I'm tired. I'm tired of using one switch attached to my facial muscles to activatecontrols in order to manoeuvre the chair and to communicate. I'm tired of being attached to the chair's ventilator system that helps me breathe and I'm bloody tired of being attached to the same things in invalid beds.
The harness comes into view and she deftly attaches it to my chest and legs, and before I can compliment her on her efficiency she moves the stabilizer bar into place and attaches the lifting arm of the hoist. In a matter of seconds I'm reclining on the white couch feeling fabulous! There is a new control switch attached to my right zygomaticus-major and everything feels right and responds well, but all I manage to say through the damn communications unit is “good job.”
This wonderful new experience is so great that I'm starting to regret that it is soon to end. I've been hauled around by so many inept carers that I've come to expect a grand collection of minor injuries (and sometimes serious ones) everytime I'm moved. But this equipment – and this woman are brilliant. Nowhere have I ever seen anything or anyone so fine and I'm so awestruck by the pure comfort I'm experiencing that I can't think of any words that can possibly describe how grateful I feel. But I'm sure the woman can see the gratitude in my eyes. She gives me that nice smile again.
'Are you ready for the frontal lobe stimulator, or would you like to relax a few minutes?'
I tell her yes and she positions the stimulator probes on my forehead. I won't feel them go in. I'm ready. So ready! All I have to do is think about what I want to dream about and the stimulator will do the magic. I'll dream the dream and I'll vividly feel, hear, taste and smell everything! I'll be dreaming when she pulls the plug.
I begin to conjure. I call out in my mind to the time and place I want to be and to the people I want to be with. Here we go.
The Aragon Ballroom, Chicago,1939.
Turkish cigarettes, champagne cocktails and dark red lipstick.
Silk jackets and fine cordovan leather dancing pumps.
Sexy boys and girls swinging with the horns and the woodwinds, feeling that driving beat of the red-hot rhythm section.
I taste the smooth tobacco smoke and let it linger on my tongue.
I sip the booze and wonder at the tingle my throat.
The big band is playing hard and fast and loud. Just the way I like it.
Take me away.
Make it swing, make it hot!
They're playing a Mambo number now, and he moves with me so gracefully!
Muscles in my calves aching. Dance, dance, dance!
That old feeling! Is it desire?
His scent intoxicating me now. Sweet, hot sweat and Old Spice.
His dinner jacket is unbuttoned, the red silk lining inviting me. I slip my hand inside it and put my arm around his waist.
Swing me! Twirl me!
Another partner, another tune.
Tango!
Smooth, aggressive moves. Give and take. Push and pull. Delicious!
His long legs wrap around mine like silky hot serpents then disengage as we step back and forth, gliding.
He's smooth. He's dangerous. He's hot.
I ditch him and move on.
Another cigarette and more champagne!
Touch up my lipstick.
Someone hands me a note – an invitation to dance.
Quiet now.
I'm in the white room. How could this happen?
I see the good looking hologram man again.
'How was your experience, Madame?'
'What?'
'Madame, how was your experience?'
'I'm not dead?'
'No, Madame. You are not.'
'Why not?'
'It is our policy that our clients must complete a pre-departure experience before we can schedule the actual departure.'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'Madame, this has been your trial run. I beg your pardon, but surely you must have seen the fineprint.'
This work by Rima DeFord is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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