9–1–1 or R.I.P.?

A matter of life or death

In a business class I had to take in college, the professor taught us how a good manager makes decisions: she doesn’t panic; she takes her time; brainstorms with respected colleagues; and chases down the pros and cons.

The professor emphasized that in the field of finance, the worst that can ensue from an ill-advised decision is that the firm crashes mega-bucks on the market. (Segue to: As your assistance has failed to further our assets, your ass is forthwith deprived of its parking space in the company lot.)

Unlike in medicine, in finance you can’t be sued for damages no matter how egregious your error. Nobody dies if you screw up.

The professor was trying to reassure us, to defuse doubts we may have had as to whether big business was where we wanted to be.

I had no doubts whatsoever; I had not been invested in business to begin with and had accrued no interest since.

Nonetheless, her career advice was invaluable insofar as her proffered analogy reinforced my decision to eschew the medical arena; my scientific bent would have me bending over books, not a mangled mess on a stretcher.

How ironic it is that — thirty-four years thereafter — here I am, a triage team of one, faced with a decision that affords little time, a decision that must be made by me alone.

The very act of involving anyone else is itself a decision, a decision that would allow me to dodge responsibility.

I shall try to calm myself so as to approach this dilemma rationally.

I am not supposed to be here. I was in the neighborhood and thought to return a book before it succumbed to oops-sorry syndrome.

Assuming my sister and brother-in-law to be at their workplaces, I didn’t bother to knock; I let myself in with the spare key.

Anne would have had no reason to expect me to stop by. The crucial question is, was she expecting anybody else? They had a cleaning woman once a week, but I didn’t know which day.

And what about John? Would he be coming home soon, as usual? Anne said something about his travelling on business. But is it this week or next?

Damn — I wish I could remember! It would make clear my decision. I can’t call John to find out; I’d be tipping my hand.

No way am I going upstairs. God knows what I’d find there.

Perhaps I’d find that fate has made moot my decision.

I have to rely on past data, the implications of which confound even the experts. If they can’t concur, who am I to gauge if her purported proofs of intention exhibit signs of ambivalence?

Seven times, Anne has stated her case graphically. But not every analyst interprets the data as definitive.

Some suggest the data are meant to mislead; after all, Anne ultimately reneges on her claims. The contingent who take her stark statistics dead seriously strive to manipulate circumstances in the hope of coaxing Anne’s dismal data into a promising position.

For twelve grueling years, all manner of experiments on our sorry “subject” continue to yield “disappointing results,” which term is the epitome of euphemism, given that flagrant failure number eight awaits upstairs.

To complicate matters, it isn’t just my sister I have to consider: there’s her husband.

Anne has long been tormented over having dragged John into her hell hole. She yearns to set him free; she says John deserves paradise after twenty years in the pits — a normal life with a normal wife, at the very least.

I can’t say I disagree. Not that it’s Anne’s fault. Blame it on her “blue” genes. Who knows what causes it, much less how to cure it. Or even to control it. “Treatment-Resistant Depression,” they call it.

There’d been pills to the gills. Shock till you drop — before, during, and after which were her attempts at treatments with more permanent effects, to wit: ODs in her bed, COs in her car, razor rampages in her tub.

Damn. Why does it have to be me in this position! Of all days, why did I have to stop by? Why couldn’t I have overlooked the note? If I hadn’t noticed it, I’d have had no reason to think anything was amiss and would have by now departed.

She’d taped the “Dear John” letter to the banister. Large red print, three short sentences: Call the police. DO NOT go upstairs. I’m so sorry.

If I knew whether Anne expected John — or someone — to come in and find her before it was too late, then I’d know what she would have wanted me to do.

Or not.

What was her M.O. this time?

Pills? Which kind — kinds? How many? Toxicity? Time elapsed since ingestion?

Wrists? Vertically — an ooze? Or horizontally — a fountain?

Did she drown her sorrows?

Or hang them out to die?

I shudder to imagine the staging of this opening — and closing? — scene of Act Eight.

How fortunate that I’m forbidden to attend; per Anne’s express command, only the police are permitted a sneak preview of her performance.

DO NOT go upstairs.

Fine by me.

I pick up the phone.

Shall I dial 9–1–1?

Or shall I replace the receiver…

… and glide out, silently, like a ghost?