The last face they see

It's a strange job. For a lot of them I'm the last face they see, if they don't have family with them, the nurse by the bedside at the end.

There was that chap last week, a sweet old thing. I remember him in particular.

"Do you mind if I look at your face?" he said.

"Of course not," I replied. You can hardly say no to a last request.

"You've got a pretty face. It'll give me something pleasant to think about as the drugs kick in."

"I'll give you a nice big smile if that will help."

"Thanks. You've got a pretty smile. Do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

"Do you? That's what matters."

"I'm in a lot of pain. Constant. And my body's useless now, I can't do a thing. I'm just a burden on everyone."

"Then I think you're doing the right thing. Here, another smile, if that'll help."

"Thanks. That's what I need. A nice pretty smile to die to."

It's a strange job, a strange job for a nurse, I thought I was training to save lives, but now I do the opposite, helping people to die. But I know it's the right thing, it saves unnecessary suffering.

Even so, I couldn't do it full time, it'd break my heart to go through that every single working day. I do two days a week at the clinic, and another two days at the sperm bank, the other end of the life cycle.

I'm the last face they see there too, before they do the deed. I hand them the utensil to, you know, the one they have to fill, a discreet cloth to cover the same and some magazines, you know, to help the process.

Not everyone wants the magazines, not when they realise other people have used them. Like the guy this morning, he was quite disgusted by the concept of used magazines, threw them back at me.

"Are you sure you'll manage without them?" I said.

"I'll think of something," he said.

You've got a pretty face."

"I've been told that before," I said. I smiled, thinking of the old man who passed. Such a lovely man.

"That's a nice smile," he said. "A very pretty smile. I think I'll manage without the magazines."