In the Midst of Life

nursing a sick man. After his death, she said she cried for two years, and for thirty years she took flowers each Sunday to his grave. I was with her on one occasion (she was probably around seventy at the time) and I remember a very beautiful graveyard on a hillside, quiet in the sunshine, with vineyards spreading to the south. She said, ‘It makes me happy that he is here, in this beautiful place.’
    Helga was getting on for fifty when she and Eugen met. He was only thirty, so there was a big age gap. They were lovers, but she would not marry him. ‘I do not want him to be burdened with an old woman,’ she said. They did not even live together. ‘I do not want him to become too dependent on me. He is too young. It would not be fair. He must be absolutely free.’ I met Eugen several times and although, sadly, we did not share the same language, I could see that he adored Helga, and was a constant support and companion to her. Throughout her long life, Helga retained that feminine beauty and fascination that is more than sex appeal.
    Helga was around seventy when she developed cancer of the breast. A mastectomy and chemotherapy were effective, but she was very much weaker and during the next ten years suffered many falls, both in the street and in her home. She told me aboutthese, saying, ‘I am afraid to go out in case I fall again. I have no confidence.’ I last saw her in 2005 in Baden-Baden, and she fell and broke her shoulder. She was in great pain, but her concern was for my husband and me, that she had spoiled our holiday! I remarked with wonder at her stoicism; she smiled. ‘That is my way; I do not want to burden others with my pain. I just put up with it.’
    A break of the shoulder can be very serious, because healing of such a complex joint is difficult. It is also very painful. She told me that, after this accident, Eugen left his own apartment and stayed with her, day and night, looking after her. The shoulder took seven months to heal, and she told me that the experience really deepened the love between them. She also said that she hoped that Eugen would find a younger woman with whom he could share a more meaningful life than ‘looking after a broken old woman like me’.
    Helga had read my books, and one day asked me on the telephone if I was writing anything new. I told her I was writing about death. She chuckled. ‘Ah yes, death, we think more about it as we grow older, don’t we?’ Then she told me she hoped for death all the time, because life had become so burdensome.
    A little while later I received a letter dated 14th March, 2009, which contained the following sentences:
    Two years ago I tried to contact death-help organisations in Holland and Switzerland. But of course, I am uncertain if I will choose this way because of Eugen. I do not want to shock him.
     
    The letter speaks of other things, then goes on:
    My last remaining energy is now searching for the way for eternal release. In my opinion it is inhuman to extend lives in hospital that are not serviceable any more. I hope you understand me, in spite of religious doubts. Did I tell you about my black-out in my bathroom at the beginning of December, when I lay almost six hours helpless on the cold marble floor? The next day Eugen found me and drove me tohospital. They started to X-ray me all over and, surprisingly, nothing was broken, in spite of my osteoporosis, but they discovered metastases in my body (I had had two cancer operations in earlier years). I told them that I would not agree to any more operations, and therefore do not care for more details. The chief doctor touched me on both shoulders, and then said kindly, ‘According to your wish you are herewith released from hospital.’
A friend in Baden-Baden now explained to me the way to get into contact with the Swiss organisation, where she is already admitted in her wish to die. It seems very complicated, but makeable.
A funny point: she has postponed two times her final ‘ceremony’ which she payed for beforehand and now moves into a first-class clinic in Baden-Baden. Who knows if Helga will not end up with a similar solution? I don’t think so, but I find the story quite amusing.
     
    I wrote to her, but do not have a copy of my letter. A reply came on 18th June:
    My dear Jennifer
I can hardly believe that your letter dates from May 11th, but time seems to pass more and more quickly to a very tired old woman. Probably because she needs so much time for each