Making choices

I had a pleasant, easeful weekend with Sue: cool breezes, sunshine, birds fledging from their nests around her house, flowers in flagrant bloom. Now I’m back at my place. My back is better than it has been for a while, though not as pain-free as it was on the day of the injections. I’m grateful for the improvement.

My apartment complex offers 25 small gardening spaces for the avid gardeners in the building, most of whom are Chinese. There is a three-year waiting list, and the spaces are highly prized. I regard gardening as a spectator sport, so I take pleasure in watching (in this case) one of my neighbors build a trellis for his tomato plants, tying together odd bits of discarded wood with odd bits of discarded string. 

Content Warning: end of life option. As I was strolling in the garden, I came across a neighbor who was sobbing and furious. She told me her brother ended his life this morning. He was 80 and had received this week a diagnosis of an aggressive form of Alzheimer’s. I sympathized with her loss and shock and suggested the possibility of respecting his choice. She said she hadn’t considered that; she was just so angry that he committed what she considers to be murder. We talked for a while. I believe I would make the same choice he did, if I had that diagnosis and if I could figure out how to execute the plan without traumatizing anyone else.