. . . Left paralyzed after 12 hours of surgery to reconstruct my disintegrated vertebrae I was grateful to be alive; relaxed about it. But when the wonderful narcotics were taken away, or I refused them because I couldn't breathe or easily wake up; I realized I couldn't move my body. Fear slipped in. My flesh was stone. I didn't fear death, just near death. I couldn't dream. I could barely think or feel at all. My doctors, who so personally determined my survival and even cried over me, fixed me up with a titanium alloy Texas Scottish Rite instrumentation and a Moss cage; medical tech-speak for a very sturdy reconstruction. My prognosis was that with extensive therapy I'd leave my wheelchair and walk again. I was in my prime with a fulfilling sex life and seven children as delightful evidence. I had much to live for after my tumble down the Rockies. What did Ramón have left?
I have a permanent but incomplete spinal cord injury which means I'm both lucky and frustrated. Mine is a diminished condition with which my sensory capacity is variously impaired, a veritable patchwork of hypersensitivity, no sensitivity, and every possible nuance. On one side of my body, cold feels oddly like heat or pain. There are a few spots where the nerves are completely dead. My muscle capability is fickle, changing from one minute to the next; one moment my body is teasingly in sync with my brain, and the next moment I'm staggering like I just closed the pub. I always feel like I'm moving with a concrete body suit. My gravity is relative to my memory of it. I feel heavier, but I'm not. I can't run, walk quickly, dance with wild abandon, climb, hike, and most certainly not scamper after dogs or children. But I can walk with a cane outdoors and without one in a very safe familiar environment. Sometimes I can strut my sassy and dance a little. I can breathe, make love, and think coherently, though some have serious doubts about this last one. I live with chronic pain and exhaustion; must be vigilant with exercise; must avoid getting knocked down; and always anticipate that the titanium will outlast my bones and brain. For the sake of comfort, I'm in constant motion, sitting, walking, laying down, standing up. Some day I may grow weary of all this effort. But for now, I put my feet in the dewy grass. I can feel only its presence with my right foot, yet I also feel some softness, coolness, and wetness with my left foot. I know that Sampedro would have relished all these remnants of wholeness. He would have savored these very substantial crumbs. Only 26 years old, and he lost everything including his dignity. Not my dignity, not yours, but his.
When at last I meet that trickster porter, Terror-Joy Wheel Dude, aka Anfortas, aka Jesus at the Gate to No-where, No-thing, No-how, I'll tell him, "Make mine to go. One Poppy Juice. Supersize me." Will I change my mind in those final hours and cave in to my children's wish to delay my death? It could happen. If I remain conscious to the very end, we're gonna negotiate, though I am absolutely convinced I have the right to decide where and when.
But wait a minute. Just now, after my pontification, I ask myself: would I be so understanding if someone I loved asked me to help them end their life? With all my certainty could I be a hypocrite? The depth of my conviction might conflict with my selfish love for them. I'm certain I'd beg them not to act on their initial despair, but to give it some time. People change their minds, and rash decisions can be irreversibly permanent. Ramón's father, Joaquin, sadly said, "There's only one thing worse than having your son die on you ... him wanting to." When it's your own son, daughter, lover or friend asking you to help kill them, well. I understand the reluctance. But the people I love must have the same right I claim for myself. If I don't respect this, then I can't assert this freedom either.
Just before Ramón Sampedro consummated his desire, his euthanasia advocate asked him to give it some more thought. Even more ironic - his adoring and terminally ill lawyer backed out of their suicide pact; and when disease destroyed her brain, she couldn't even remember who it was who wrote to her his final love letter. "Out to sea. Out to sea, and in the weightlessness of the deep where dreams come true, two souls unite to fulfill a single wish. Your gaze and mine, over and over like an echo, repeating silently: "Deeper, and deeper," beyond everything that is flesh and blood. But I always awaken and I always wish for death, my lips forever entangled in your hair."
Check out Mary Jo Malo's personal poetry page at http://hometown.aol.com/ophiuchus/poetry.html.