Mercy flight
The man two seats away from me on this lumbering plane bound for Switzerland has a face, and a story that like it or not I shall never forget.
This story was written in November 2019 about a very personal experience that left a huge emotional imprint on my heart. I’ve not shared it widely until now. The names have been changed to protect privacy.
He’s a beautiful old man with silver hair and large black glasses and a kind smile. In the hustle of boarding a large international flight the horde of people is always extra jammed and loaded down with carry on luggage. It’s not uncommon to get stuck in a people traffic jam as passengers hustle to settle into their tiny piece of airplane real estate for the next ten hours. Lucky for me, my real estate was the last seat of business class. Being so near the front of the airplane and early to board, meant the pushy and impatient were trying to pass while I hefted my heavy roller bag up to the luggage bin.
In the melee, was squeezed out of the aisle and into this old man’s area where I bumped into his frail leg hidden underneath a lap blanket. He looked at me, smiled and apologized - as if it was his fault I was in his space. Later I learned he worked in a non profit for 20 years and spent time traveling - much of it in third world countries. Who knows all the experiences that lie behind those bright blue eyes of his.
His wife was my seat mate. She immediately struck me as a lovely, direct, practical sort of woman — I was guessing 15 years his junior and later I discovered I was right on the money. She was early 70s, he was 95. When she was too short to reach something placed in the luggage bin, she had no problem hopping up on the arm rest in her sock feet to get what she needed. She was active and spry, and he was most definitely not.
Normally I rarely speak the the person next to me, especially on a long haul flight where sleep is critical. But this evening I broke the ice early with a little small talk that quite unexpectedly led us directly down a path to a very deep and dark and private place which was equally moving and disturbing. It was an exchange that for me, turned this into one plane ride, and two people I shall never forget.
When I asked the typical question about their travel plans, she shook her head quite quickly in the negative. Judging by her husband’s frail-ness I assumed they were traveling for some special health concern or procedure. It turned out I was right, but not at all in the way I’d expected.
“My husband also has some health issues”, I said, trying to find some common ground.
She looked at me with something dark behind her eyes. “It’s complicated,” she said. “This is a mercy trip.” The words were spinning in my head, the dots trying to connect until she added, “We are going to Switzerland because we cannot do what we want to do in the United States.”
I felt like my eyes grew 10 times as her meaning began to set in. For what seemed like an eternity, we exchanged an unspoken language as her strained face met my stricken one.
How does one respond to that kind of bombshell? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it other than to say, “I’m so sorry and to try and be the person she needed at that very moment in an unthinkable, painful time in her life. Her husband of 24 years had a one-way ticket. His place by her side would be empty on the return and very slowly I was realizing he would be gone before the week was out.
True to her practical-ness, she explained it in matter-of-fact terms. “He made this decision seven months ago and ever since then we’ve been jumping through hoops to be in this place. He has been very determined.
But then there was one more piece of information to come that made my heart drop even further. “He has Parkinson's.” The common ground I was seeking was now far too common. Too close. Taking me somewhere I definitely did not want to go. Yet our connection tightened as together we flew through the middle of the night and I explained, “My husband has Parkinson’s too.” And in my head I am cursing this horrible disease for what it does and the desperation it creates.
Her husband, Peter, has had Parkinson’s for 10 or so years and though his mind was sharp his body was stripped away. “He can’t hear. He can’t sleep. He can’t get around. He can’t enjoy anything he once did,” she explained. He loved to read,” she said. “A voracious reader always.” But now he can read for just 20 minutes and has to stop. Apparently a year or so ago he ordered the book “The Peaceful Pill” and that for him, was the beginning of this very intentional one way journey to one of many organizations in Switzerland that promise “dignity” in death.
I learned more of their story and it struck so many cords with our own life and the fact that less than four years ago we buried Tim’s father who also battled Parkinson’s. Sandra explained they live in a retirement home and Peter absolutely did not want to move to the assisted care area, to become a helpless man lying on a bed all day. I thought to myself about the trying years preceding Tim’s father’s death — Charlie battled Parkinson’s for approximately 20 years, right up to the ripe age of 86 where his body at last had enough. In those final years, he also tried everything to avoid a move to the “other side” — talking about assisted care it as if it was death itself.
Eventually Charlie was confined to one small room and wholly reliant on the nurses’ timing to change and dress and feed him. And their timing was never right. For a man who’s personality had two outstanding traits — a love of entertaining a room of people and a dire lack of patience — this living situation was unfathomable, and he fought it with every ounce of his being until he was too weak of mind and spirit to fight any more. It was excruciating for everyone around him — especially his son. For years Charlie would disobey the nurses and miraculously and stubbornly summon the strength to shuffle back to his old apartment where his wife still happily lived. He fell so many times and never broke a hip that we were sure they were made of rubber. Several times he made a run for it using his motorized wheelchair to escape into the parking lot, one time tumbling over the curb and spilling helplessly onto the parking lot. Desperation takes many forms. And it’s not always so dignified.
By now his son — my husband — has had the same wicked disease for well over a decade. But it’s a complicated, mysterious disease that takes many different forms and thankfully the flavor Tim was served is one that is slow to progress. During those difficult final years with his dad, Tim had to support and care for someone he loved while trying hard not to feel like he was looking in a mirror. The emotional toll was tough, and I’ll admit that there were many times after being equally frustrated and sad for his dad at same time, he would turn to me at night and say, if this happens to me “just put a pillow over my face.”
His words haunt me as I look at this sweet man across the aisle from me. He’s reading. He’s obviously intelligent. But according to his wife, he is also determined not to be the helpless vegetable. She explained, “He always said that when the negatives outweigh the positives it would be the end, and that time has come.”
His adult son sat by his side and together with Sandra, my seat mate, they looked after Peter through the long flight. She was the dispenser of medication along the way, watching the clock and passing out pills. Some of the names I recognized as the same bottles sitting on my bathroom vanity. A collection of bottles for which I’m both grateful and resentful all at the same time. They offer a cocktail of medicine designed to add the right chemicals to slow tremors and ease movement. They are a blessing and a curse.
I tried to sleep — but the “stressful” week I was worrying about suddenly seemed less important. As I tried to nod off the questions just kept turning over in my mind. From the philosophical...How does one get to this point? How does she feel? What is this man’s faith? To the practical....What will they do with his body? What about his kids?
Sandra didn’t sleep. And the more we talked, the more I felt her pain.
Eventually I dared to ask the personal question that factored the biggest on my mind and that was a spiritual one. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “He doesn’t have any faith. He’s an atheist.” “But me? I’m wearing my cross.” With that said, I told Sandra I’d pray for strength and peace for her and I have been every time I think of her.
The details eventually unfolded. They would meet with doctors who confirm Peter is of sound mind and the intentions are his own. A few days would pass and Thursday, at 10 am, — about the time I would be giving a big presentation — they had an appointment with death. They would say their final goodbyes and he would take a pill under video surveillance as proof. His ashes will be shipped by return freight and a funeral in Colorado will follow. The date and the plans already set.
I cannot imagine Sandra’s inner conflict. In fact, she was the one who chose the word “accomplice”. As Peter can’t hear or properly sign a document, it was her hand on the pen and her will to make this happen. She made all the phone calls and all the arrangements. “How could you manage this emotionally?,” I asked.
Sandra explained she was honoring his wishes. She’d promised to do so long ago, but that doesn’t mean she can escape the guilt. She’s borne this burden all alone, fearful to tell their fellow retirement home friends and be subject to their judgement. This was their second marriage and Peter, planning ahead had agreed to a move back to her home town so she could be near her support network. “This was his gift to me,” she explained. And her gift to him was agreeing, with the support of his two children, to his plans.”
Helping Tim to see his father through his final years was one of the most difficult journeys in our life and of course I know it won’t be the last. I can empathize with Peter’s convictions but I cannot agree with his decision. I am thinking of the Bible verse that talks about how God knit each one of us together in the womb. I believe He created us, each one of us as special. And though we cannot understand the sometimes painful paths he puts us on, it is His ultimate decision when that path is finished. No one can say the hour except the One who set us on that path in the first place. Only God knows when it is time for us to lay down our earthly burdens for good and take up his promise of everlasting life with him in his Kingdom. This is what I believe, but this wasn’t the time to share it. This was the time to listen and pray and squeeze Sandra’s hand.
The plane touched down in Zurich and the surreal overnight flight was about to close. I left Sandra, Peter and their son in the baggage claim area. After a heartfelt hug with Sandra, I knelt down to Peter, squeezed his hand and mustered the few words I could manage. All I know is that they ended with “God bless you this week.”
I turned, headed off to my ‘normal’ life feeling numb and ready to sob for the two people I just met — and if I’m honest, for Tim and for me and this crappy hand he was dealt. I walked numbly through customs and into the sea of people who are always standing there — waiting for their loved ones and friends to arrive. I’m in a foreign country, eyes blurry with tears and my heart so heavy with the surreal nature of what just transpired. The weight of their decision, the toll of a disease and the unfairness of life sometimes seems a bit too much to bear.
It’s now Saturday and I’m headed home myself. I cannot stop wondering about Sandra and how she feels. I will never know. But I do believe that sitting next to her on that difficult ride was not a coincidence for either one of us. I want to take something positive from this and it has to do with the thing Tim keeps reminding me of — stop worrying about what’s ahead and enjoy what we have today. His attitude and his fortitude and faith are inspiring. My own struggle feels like it keeps increasing — managing a job, being a good wife, helping to ‘launch’ children, caring for my own ageing parents, and constantly feeling like there’s never enough — time, space, care, or cultivation of relationships with each other and with God. It’s overwhelming sometimes and frustrating always. Spending time with Sandra, and coming face to face with their journey wasn’t easy. I can say for certain we will never be on a mercy flight to Switzerland, but one day we will all — disease or not — be coming face to face with the end of our journey on earth.
And when it does happen the “mercy” will be God’s. It covers our times of doubts. It covers the areas where we perennially fall short. It reminds us that as we each struggle with life’s earthly challenges, “why me?” is the wrong question. The right answer doesn’t end in taking things into our own control, but remembering that God is in control. “For I have plans for you, to give you hope and a future.” Whatever that future is, it is. And it will be. And we can face it with courage and confidence knowing that the end of the line is not the end. Our purpose here on earth is more than making it through each day alone — it is to be His hands and His heart for others until it is His decision to bring us to our final home.