He’d even failed at making the basketball team in junior high school.
When the sun sagged down in the western sky and touched the horizon,
Jeffrey had the sense it was setting on his life. He thought that few people could realize the tremendous toll malpractice litigation took on a practicing physician’s emotional and professional life, especially when there was no malpractice involved. Even if Jeffrey had won the case, he knew that his life would have been changed forever. The fact that he lost was that much more devastating. And it had nothing to do with money.
Jeffrey watched the sky change from warm reds to cold purple and silver, while the light ebbed and the day died. As he sat there in the gathering gloom, he suddenly had an idea. It wasn’t entirely true that he was helpless. There was something he could do to affect his destiny. With the first sense of purpose in weeks, Jeffrey pushed himself out of the wing chair and went to the closet. From it he pulled his large black doctor’s bag and put it on the bureau.
From the doctor’s bag he retrieved two small bottles of Ringer’s Lactate intravenous fluid as well as two infusion kits and one small scalp needle.
Then he took out two vials, one of succinyleholine, the other of morphine.
Using a syringe, he drew up 75 mg of the succinylcholine and squirted it into one of the Ringer’s Lactate bottles. Then he drew up 75 mg of morphine, a walloping dose.
One of the benefits of being an anesthesiologist was that Jeffrey knew the most efficient way to commit suicide. Other doc-
tors didn’t, though they tended to be more successful in their attempts than the general public. Some shot themselves, a messy method which, surprisingly enough, was not always effective. Others took overdoses, another method that often didn’t yield the desired result. Too often the would-be suicides were caught in time to have their stomachs pumped. Other times the drugs injected were enough to bring on a coma but not death. Jeffrey shuddered at the haphazard consequences.
Jeffrey felt his depression lift slightly as he worked. It was heartening to have a goal. He took the painting that hung over the head of the bed down to use the hook to hang both IV bottles. He then sat down on the side of the bed and started the IV on the back of his left hand with the bottle containing only the Ringer’s Lactate solution. He piggy-backed the bottle containing the succiny1choline onto the other, with only the thin blue stopcock separating him from its lethal contents.
Careful not to dislodge the IV, Jeffrey lay back on the bed. His plan was to inject the huge dose of morphine and then open the stopcock on the solution containing the succiny1choline. The morphine would send him to never-never-land long before the succiny1choline concentration paralyzed his respiratory system. Without a ventilator, he would die. It was as simple as that.
Gently, Jeffrey inserted the needle of the syringe containing the morphine into the IV port of the infusion line going into the vein on the back of his hand. Just as he was beginning to inject the narcotic, there was a soft knock on his door.
Jeffrey rolled his eyes. What a time for Carol to interrupt. He held off the injection but didn’t respond to her knock, hoping she’d go away if she thought he was still asleep. Instead, she knocked louder, then louder still. “Jeffrey!” she called. “Jeffreyl I’ve made dinner.”
There was a short silence that made Jeffrey think she’d given up. But then
Jeffrey heard the knob turn and the door rattle against the jamb.
“Jeffrey-are you all right?”
Jeffrey took a deep breath. He knew he had to say something or she might be concerned enough to force the door. The last thing he wanted was for her to come barging in and see the IV.
“I’m fine,” Jeffrey called out at last.
“Then why didn’t you answer me?” Carol demanded.
“I was asleep.”
“Why is this door locked?” Carol asked.
“I guess I didn’t want to be disturbed,” Jeffrey replied with pointed irony.