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Show 362 "I can picture every detail," I am saying, recalling the room, the swinging ofthe stethoscope, the isolated sentence and each enunciation of every vowel and consonant. Had I told Dr. Emerson I could do this no more? Had he just started the conversation by himself, thinking I would never recall it anyway? "There is also something about its not hurting," I am telling Faith, trying to push deeper into that moment but unable to go any further than that. "You mean your death?" she is asking. I am nodding my head, thinking that he said, in essence, I could die without pain. If I wanted. Any time I wanted. "How could he make such an offer when I am bombed out of my head with so much depressive drug in my body?" I am wanting to know. I am still grieving Dr. Chappie's move, so far away. She would have balanced this memory, if indeed this is what it is, with a quiet voice, a hearty laugh and some sort of quiet medical equation. Faith is frowning, shaking her head. She is a professional first and will not draw any conclusions with such limited information. "Do you have a living will?" she is asking. |
