I Killed My Parents -- They Asked Me to Do It

By John West, Counterpoint Press. Posted February 5, 2009.

Dinnertime came and went, Jolly opened his presents with great gusto, and then the party came to an end because I needed to leave for the airport and catch the last flight back to Seattle. I had to be in court with a client the next morning, so I couldn't stay overnight in L.A. I was about to call a cab when Dad volunteered to drive me -- another surprise. He usually hated chores like that. Perhaps he felt the need, as I did, for a few minutes of private conversation.

I kissed Mom and my sisters goodbye, and then Jolly and I got into his car and headed down the freeway to LAX. Jolly loved his Cadillac -- the fanciest car he'd ever owned. When he'd bought the Caddy only a few years earlier, he'd joked about its being black, saying it would be the last car he'd ever own, and that we could drive him to his funeral in it. Now, as he steered it down the freeway, I realized that the joke would come true. I didn't say anything, though -- surely he'd thought of it. I just shook my head at the sad irony. 

As we drove along and made small talk, I could tell he had something on his mind -- probably our unfinished old business -- but I knew it would be hard for him to raise that painful subject. So, as we neared the airport, I waded in.

"Listen, Dad, there's something important I want to talk with you about, and I think it's important that I tell you in person, before I get on the plane."

"Okay," he said; he sounded neutral, but I sensed him bracing himself.

"You and I have been having this big disagreement for a couple of years, but I want you to know that I'm through with it. I've been thinking a lot about the whole situation since you told me your medical news, and, well, life-and-death matters -- like what you're facing -- are simply more important. So I want you to know that all that other stuff is moot. It's over and done with, as far as I'm concerned."

I heard him exhale slowly, and I thought I could see his shoulders relax. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, but I could tell he was concentrating, thinking how to respond. He glanced at me, then looked back at the road and said very quietly, "Thank you, Johnny. You don't know how much that relieves my mind."

Then we had to stop at a red light, the last light before we entered the LAX causeway for departing passengers. As we sat there waiting, I heard him sigh, and then the sigh turned into a sob, and I looked over and saw a tear roll down his cheek just before he reached up and wiped it away. It was the only time in my life I ever saw him cry.

Then the light turned green and we drove on in silence. I pointed out the terminal, and Jolly maneuvered the car over to the curb and stopped. We both got out and he came around to my side, his eyes still a little moist. He put his arms out and we hugged, and again he said, "Thank you."

I picked up my briefcase. "Well . . . I love you, Dad."

"I love you too," he said.

And then I had to go.

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John West is author of The Last Goodnights: Assisting My Parents with Their Suicides by John West (Counterpoint Press, 2009).

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