One writing form I’d never really tried my hand at was the short story. Until now. One day recently I heard about a distinguished old couple who’d made a very difficult decision – and a story, a short one, immediately took shape for me. I know that elderly WASP couples aren’t fashionable these days among fiction editors and publishers, but I do think that life in our nation’s retirement communities and assisted-living facilities, where millions reside with their stories and fading memories, is well worth exploring.

The Washburns

The news raced through the corridors of The Hearth at Pilgrim Hill from the moment Rick and Kit Washburn announced that they were going to starve themselves to death.

By the next day, the initial shock had begun to wear off, but only a little.

“They’ve obviously thought it through,” said Gigi Sands at lunch. “They don’t want to wait for the unknown to come and sweep them away. I think we get that.”

“We also get that they want to go at the same time,” said Gene West, who just two days earlier had played gin with Rick Washburn.

“More or less the same time,” said Evie Coviello.

“Yes,” said Gigi. “It’s an inexact science.”

They spooned through their soup. Cream of broccoli. Carl Nevers, who was not a broccoli person, busied himself with a tiny packet of oyster crackers. They’re starving us already anyway, he thought but didn’t say. Their group of five—three widows and two widowers—tried to gather for lunch every day. They called themselves the Lost Spouse Club. On many days, doctor’s appointments or other obligations interfered with their having a full table, but today all were present. Each of them, either openly or not, had been shaken by the news of the Washburns.

“Is what they’re doing legal?” asked Betty Samuelson.

“To not eat?” replied Gene West, leaving the rest unsaid.

“Unless it becomes a big deal,” said Evie.

“Yes, right,” said Gene, trying to seize authority on the issue. “If it becomes a big deal, someone will step in and stop it.”

“Put a tube down their throats,” said Carl.

“I don’t think it would come to that, Carl,” said Gene. “Rick and Kit want to go peacefully, not in a struggle with the authorities.”

“They’re trusting we won’t let word get out,” added Gigi. “Even staff isn’t supposed to know, although Kit didn’t mention that specifically.”

“Staff already know,” said Carl. “You can’t keep this sort of thing quiet.”

“Especially when you issue a proclamation about it,” said Gigi.

“I wonder what they’ll do,” said Betty. “Management, I mean.”

“If they do anything,” said Evie.

“Maybe they’ll just let it ride,” said Betty. “That’s what they’re good at.”

Few would feel comfortable saying so, but death and dying were more often than not the topics du jour at the Hearth. On any given day, a new name from the population might be revealed as being ill, or on the way out, or gone. There was even a shrine of sorts out by the front desk, where photos of the recently deceased were displayed, along with brief biographies and expressions of admiration and support from other residents. Death at the Hearth could be quick: familiar faces, longtime staples of the dining room and movie theater, could disappear without warning, never to be seen again. Or it could be gradual: if someone was said to have “moved on,” it meant they’d left independent living for the obscurity of the medical wing. Betty Samuelson once called the medical wing “The Terminal,” and the name stuck.

In most cases, the end was accompanied by familiar language. “X” had waged a brave battle. “Y” had remained notably cheerful throughout. “Z” had faced excruciating pain with equanimity. Which is what was making the Washburns’ decision so remarkable. They weren’t about to go down a dark, messy path chosen for them by fate. They were choosing their own route and their own language. Theirs would be a story of their own making. Suddenly the Washburns were the only thing anyone wanted to talk about. And it wasn’t just the Lost Spouse Club doing the talking. It was all of the Hearth.

Because of a recent joint birthday party, everyone knew that Rick Washburn was 95 and Kit 94. He’d seen brief service in World War II, on a ship in the Pacific, and then had come home to a degree from Bowdoin and a long, far-reaching career with the State Department. Kit was from a prominent Eastern family. She’d been a much-honored newspaper reporter and later a syndicated political columnist under the name of Andrea George. They had two children, a daughter, Harriet, who lived outside Cleveland, and a son, Jim, on the Delaware shore, now both pushing 70 themselves. Rick and Kit had zigzagged across the globe for many decades before finally settling down on the Cape, but, somehow, most likely with some very good and loyal help along the way, they’d made it all work. They’d been married 68 years. Even in very old age, they were a handsome, modest, devoted couple, and a distinguished presence. Day after day, they could be observed roaming the broad corridors of the Hearth, lately with Rick leaning heavily on a cane and then in a motorized wheelchair, and always with at least a nod and a smile to those they encountered along the way. They hosted lively discussion groups and annual carol sings, and more often than not made sure to be present for public events and celebrations. Their minds remained remarkably sharp and even probing. In their own way, and certainly without looking for it, they were considered by most to be the stars of the Hearth.

It was Kit who’d handled the announcement of their starvation plans. She’d come into the dining room at peak dinner time and moved among the tables, distributing a letter—a straightforward disclosure that affirmed her newspaper background:

Dear Friends,

After a long, productive, happy time together and with others, Rick and I have decided that we are going to end our lives. Beginning this day, November 9, 2021, we have stopped eating. We plan to take only water until such a time as our bodies give out entirely and we starve to death. This may seem an abrupt and extreme measure, but we have done the research and thought it through. And, yes, we’ve discussed it with Harriet and Jim, who are both fully on board with exceptional understanding and compassion. They’ve both promised to be with us at the end. As some of you may be aware, we have experienced a number of health reversals in recent months, none serious, but each foretelling an increasingly bleak future. Everything—seeing, hearing, walking, eating, even thinking—has become increasingly hard for us. As we approach 100 years, we’d prefer to go out more or less as we are now—in one piece, as it were. Starvation isn’t necessarily painless, but it is relatively peaceful and organic. We won’t be introducing poisons into our systems or resorting to the violence so often associated with suicide. We figure that at our ages we probably have days rather than weeks left, and after the first few days we expect to be in a weakened state and confined to our apartment, where we’ll be under professional care. We will be doing a lot of hand holding, the two of us, and thinking of past days and of course all of you. We hope we haven’t shocked you. We think it’s only fair that you be informed of our plan, but we ask that you not spread the news too far and wide. We don’t want it to become a “thing.” Again, please don’t think this a rash or reckless decision. It’s simply what’s best for us.

Avec amour,

Kit and Rick Washburn

Kit hadn’t stopped for conversation. She’d simply walked out of the dining room, leaving tumult in her wake. At some of the tables, the statement was read aloud by one voice. At others, it was passed around. After that, it quickly circulated among those who, for one reason or another, hadn’t come to dinner or were confined out in The Terminal. The expressions of shock and disbelief that night were widespread. Yea and nay judgments flowed freely and often loudly. But there was, too, an undercurrent feeling that the Washburns had knocked down a wall of sorts by giving public voice to private feelings shared by many, and, beyond that, that they were openly and even flamboyantly committing to a final act that, in one form or another—whether by starvation, overdose, suffocation, carbon monoxide or gunshot— had up until now been one of the Hearth’s most respected and tightly protected rituals.

After their lunch with the group, Evie Coviello and Betty Samuelson relocated to seats by the gas fireplace in the Hearth’s main lobby. They were old friends, going back to their days as young housewives in Swansea. It had been Evie who’d discovered the Hearth and fallen in love with its scrub pine vistas and frequent infusions of pungent sea air. She and her husband, Ray, bought in and then convinced Betty and Stu to follow. Ray and Stu played golf and card games together, but they never felt happy or at home in their new surroundings. They died within six weeks of each other—Ray of a heart attack, then Stu of natural causes in his sleep. That was eight years ago. Since then, Evie and Betty had become better friends than ever, often sharing confidences they’d never share with anyone else.

“I’ve been wondering what Greta would think of all this Washburn stuff,” said Evie. “God rest her soul.”

“Funny, I thought of her this morning, too,” said Betty.

Greta Jensen had been a close mutual friend who, three years earlier, in order to escape the frightening depths of Parkinson’s, swallowed an entire bottle of Luminal one evening right after dinner. She was discovered the next afternoon, lying on her perfectly made bed, her various letters and legal documents arrayed around her like peacock feathers.

“’Take with food,’” said Evie, which once again made both women laugh. Even for an intentional overdose, Greta had followed the prescription’s instructions.

“She wouldn’t have liked this sort of attention, though,” said Betty after a moment. “She went quietly.”

“Like a mouse,” said Evie.

“And she wasn’t the only one.”

Over the years, there’d been any number of episodes at the Hearth. Some were later confirmed as suicides while others remained mysterious. Hugh Gaffney, depressed after losing Nancy, had certainly shot himself on purpose, even taking care to first cover his head with a pillow. Darby Bly, on the way out with late-stage ovarian cancer, slit her wrist in a warm bath. No two ways about what her intention had been. But Kay Seabright remained an enigma, either confused or purposeful about her major doses of OxyContin. For that matter, always suspicious of the words “natural causes,” Evie had long wondered about Betty’s own Stu, although she never dared ask about it. Anyway, the point was that none of them, or any of the others, had announced their intentions to a full dining room, which now the Washburns had done.

Betty took two sugar cookies from her jacket pocket and gave one to Evie.

“Well, they better go through with it,” she said.

It was four days later that the Washburns’ apartment door, 207B, was shut permanently to the outside world. Except for family and caregivers, no one would be allowed to enter. The final act was now under way. The evening before, Kit made herself available in the music room for what turned out to be something like a last briefing. She was now in a wheelchair herself, having weakened considerably. She spoke slowly but precisely. Rick was confined to his bed, she said, at that very moment lying fully clothed on his back, atop the covers, with his legs crossed at the ankles and his head propped up. They’d moved their beds to the living room, where big windows allowed them a view of woods, a distant meadow and, in recent days, an evening moonrise. Soon, Rick would be permanently changed into his bedclothes, and so would she. They were listening to Mozart and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and looking at old family movies and photographs. From time to time, she said, one of the caregivers read to them from a book, but it was mostly for Rick’s benefit and she was embarrassed to admit she couldn’t recall the author’s name. Finally, she said, “When we close our door tomorrow, that will be it. We’ll be on our own.”

When she was done, she looked around briefly as if to entertain questions, but no one in the small group, which included Carl Nevers, felt like asking anything. Instead, they said their goodbyes and watched as Kit was wheeled back down the corridor. As she neared the corner, she didn’t turn around to face them—she couldn’t—but she weakly raised her right hand in a sort of final salute.

Carl relayed the details to the others the next day at lunch.

“Shutting the door like that,” said Gene. “It reminds me of when the astronauts used to climb into the capsule and close the hatch behind them.”

 “I just went by their apartment on the way down here,” said Gigi. “Their door was definitely closed. I mean, all the doors are closed, but there was a finality to theirs, with us knowing. It had almost an aura to it.”

The others nodded. They’d all walked past it at some point.

“Kit described the scene so well,” said Evie. “You could picture Rick lying there in bed.”

“The scary thing is, that could be me she was describing,” said Gene. He held up half of his BLT. “I’m not starving myself to death—far from it—but I’ll admit I do spend a lot of the day lying on my back in bed, fully clothed, just like Rick.”

“That’s too much information, Gene,” said Evie with a laugh.

“He’s right, though,” said Gigi. “How different are we from the Washburns? Just a little further back in the line.”

It was clear that by now, nearly a week after the Washburns’ announcement, the initial agitation had subsided, and a general understanding and acceptance had crept into its place. If there was one thing this group—the whole Hearth population—was good at, it was taking upsetting news or the day-to-day calamities of life and burying it under a thick blanket of happier thoughts, well wishing, prayer and forgetfulness. But even as they began to move on a bit, they could still quietly admire Kit and Rick for being trailblazers. What they were doing, and how they were doing it, would make it easier for others to contemplate doing the same if and when the time came. Not everyone would want to, of course. Most never would. But the ones who did would realize that they could chart their own course, make their goodbyes, and then just go.

On the eighth day, an ambulance came and took Rick Washburn’s body away. According to a couple of the Hearth’s night owls who’d noticed activity around the front entrance during the 3 a.m. hour, the stretcher had come in and then gone back out again without ceremony. An aide had walked it down to the entrance and seen it off, and on her way back upstairs told them that it had been “Mister” who’d been taken away. Now it would be only Kit behind the door at 207B. How conscious had she been of Rick’s departure? How different would it be now without him beside her? How much longer could she possibly go on nothing but water and ice chips?

These were the questions that bounced back and forth among the Lost Spouse Club early that afternoon.

“She’s a stubborn old Yankee,” said Betty. “She never ate much to begin with.”

“Broccoli raw at lunch and cooked at dinner,” said Evie.

“And gin martinis,” added Betty. “She could still have a ways to go.”

“But now her husband’s not with her anymore,” said Gigi.

“Well, it’s not like you can speed up the process when you’re already starving yourself to death,” said Carl.

“You can always stop taking the water,” offered Gene. “But it’s useless to speculate.”

“I guess we just wait until the ambulance comes again,” said Carl.

As it happened, when the next ambulance did come, it came for Carl. Later that same afternoon, in the mood to purchase a windbreaker,  he was walking up a short flight of shallow stone steps by the golf clubhouse when he somehow lost his way and pitched forward, hitting his knee and elbow against the stone, and the side of his head against a water spigot protruding from the clubhouse’s foundation. The ambulance arrived promptly and departed without delay, but Carl didn’t survive the ride to the hospital.

An accidental death such as Carl’s was a little unusual for the Hearth. There were loss-of-balance accidents all the time, of course, with so many residents being in their 80s and 90s, but a fatality had to be deemed just very unlucky. Gene took a special interest in his friend’s arrangements, knowing Carl was estranged from his only child, a son, and had no other family to speak of. He wrote up a brief obituary and sent it to the newspaper in Carl’s hometown of Troy, NY, and also to the Fairfield University alumni office. In it, he noted Carl’s service in Korea, his long career in advertising and his special interest in the UConn women’s basketball team and wading shore birds, which had drawn him to Cape Cod.

Gene also spoke briefly at the memorial gathering that took place two days later. Carl hadn’t been a religious man, so the Hearth’s well-practiced vanilla service would be all he’d require. Gigi, Betty and Evie also spoke. They mentioned Carl’s good nature and his fondness for the Hearth kitchen’s macaroons. Betty very unexpectedly sang an unaccompanied version of “I’ll Be Seeing You.”

At the reception that followed, the surviving members of the Lost Spouse Club stood in a cluster and took in a steady stream of condolences. If the words of comfort at times seemed a little pro forma, it’s because these gatherings were so commonplace at the Hearth. In a big room, with so many voices going at once, no one could hear anything anyway. The exact words didn’t matter as much as the look in the eyes.

After forty minutes or so, Gene, Evie, Gigi and Betty took their macaroons and coffee to a table and sat down. They marveled at the turnout and the affection for Carl, who had always been so unassuming. Betty called him “a dark horse.” The level of conversation swelled when Sharon Delfino sat down at the piano, as she so often did, and began playing her medley of popular show tunes. What could have been a solemn, sad event to see off one of their own had turned into a mid-afternoon celebration, not only of Carl’s life, but of each other. All would have agreed, if asked, that this was the Hearth at its very best.

It was also why no one noticed when an ambulance pulled up once again to the main entrance and a stretcher was wheeled inside. Only the staff at the front desk was on hand to witness the removal of Kit Washburn’s body from the building, and to remark on her passing.

“Isn’t she the lady who wanted everyone to know that she and her husband were starving themselves?” one asked the other. “Should we go tell them?”

“They’ll find out soon enough,” the other said. “Let them have their fun.”