After my mother died, my father wanted to die too. He was desolate from grief – much more, I think, than he had ever imagined. He was getting into his late eighties. He had to wear a colostomy bag. He had diabetes, which gave him terrible pain in his feet. He couldn’t walk far, so his lifelong love affair with bird-watching was over. The fellow twitchers who had formed his social group were great about trying to include him. But he began to shun them because they only reminded him of what he had lost.
This was not a whim or a passing mood. He was not deranged. His depression was not irrational
Now and then, but with increasing regularity, he would talk to me very seriously and soberly and tell me that all he really wanted was to die with dignity. I couldn’t handle it. I would change the subject, move on. I didn’t have the courage to go down into his darkness. I didn’t want to lose him.