A Disastrous Edict

I knew this would be my final decision. Leaving everything and everyone behind, but I also knew it would be best for everyone, myself included.

The bottles now lay empty on the floor and the contents were strewn all over the top of the bed. Red and white pills, yellow capsules, and one clear liquid.

The bottle of whiskey lay empty and toppled over on the kitchen counter. I reached for a glass and opened the freezer to get ice. The laughter erupted almost immediately when I realized I didn’t care if the booze was cold or not. It just didn’t matter.

Illness had stripped me of my health and my dignity. I no longer wanted to be here. The doctors told me that I had maybe 3 months left. The pain was supposed to be handled by the painkillers which only worked about 1/3 of the time. And, brought instead, many more health issues. Headaches, incontinence, the inability to care for myself any longer as I lay in a morphine daze some of the time. This wasn’t life the way I wanted it. I wanted to die with dignity. Not eating mush, wearing diapers, drooling.

The age of 55 had come and gone while I was in the hospital and I didn’t look toward the future any longer. I just wanted it all to be over.

This would be best for Samantha, too, I convinced myself. There was no reason she should have to go through all this grief watching me die and spend the next years dealing with the physical and financial drain it would cause her, not counting the emotional impact on her and the children.

Cancer had proven to be a nasty foe that I fought very hard at first. But then it spread like wildfire and had now ravaged most of my body. And as time passed, I had less and less hope and thought more of just being gone.

Samantha adored me. We had been together for almost 30 years, had two beautiful children and a life filled with light and laughter. Then, this illness struck with such speed and veracity that our idyllic lives had become completely altered. The children didn’t want to spend time with me anymore because ‘this isn’t daddy’.

They cried a lot of the time and wished for daddy to be who he was before my illness, but they were old enough to understand that wasn’t going to happen.

I reached for the glass and chugged most of the booze and then used the rest to swallow three handfuls of pills.

I lay back on the pillow and waited. A fitful sleep came about 12 minutes later.

Samantha found me hanging off the edge of the bed. She brushed away the sheets, scattering the remaining pills everywhere and realized that I had wet the bed. She shook me awake and screamed at me.

“What did you do?”

I looked at her blankly and babbled something about pistol permits and bubble gum.

Samantha immediately dialed 911 and followed the ambulance to Jefferson Hospital.

The doctors said they were going to pump my stomach but they were afraid the damage had already been done. My altered mental acuity was very low. I wasn’t able to answer simple questions. I moved very slowly as if each movement had to be thought about.

Samantha was asked to wait in the family room while they continued to assess me and move me to a room.

An hour later, the doctors came to speak to her.

I had damaged all of my brain’s ability to process information, focus, recall details, and make clear decisions. She couldn’t take me home. I will need 24-hour care now.