QUALITY OF LIFE AND THE RIGHT TO DIE

When I was much younger, a vibrant animated woman, I took care of my very ill husband, a commitment that I made to myself and to God. I could not walk away from that. I could not leave a very ill man alone or worse, put him in a nursing facility at the age of 50. How unkind, heartless. I took care of him without the assistance of any one else, no one, no visiting nurse, no health care assistant.


At times he would deliberately cause bitter and hateful arguments to provoke violence because he wanted me to just go away. His pride and manhood were injured very badly. After all, he was a very robust and vigorous man who was used to being independent, and physically active. His disease took him down with no mercy. It stripped him of all his dignity and denied him of his masculinity, his sexuality.


To make matters so much worse, he was a generation older than I, and he imagined all kinds of things once I stepped out of the door. He could not help his fantasies. It was beyond his control. I was once a beautiful woman who was genuinely innocent about what lurks inside a man's heart. The most seemingly benign gestures were meant to seduce me away from him, but thankfully I never spent even more than a smile on another man.


He knew the world in a way that I didn't. He was an ex-felon who did his hard time at Levenworth for bank robbery back in the 40s. Horrific thoughts of what evil men could do to me plagued his mind to the extent of paranoia.


Many times I was followed by a black town car, moving slowly behind me as I walked. I didn't know if men would jump out to kidnap me, or if they were from the FBI protecting me.


His illness became worse with each month, despite the excellent care he received from the best doctors and hospitals. I became bitter inside, very depressed, always on edge, but always faithful, and loving, yet fearful and vigilant.


No one is able to predict what their temperament will be like when they reach their threshold of pain, their fear of dying, their agony. Guilt and suffering. Night terrors and restlessness. Beyond the ability of reason. They beg to die. They beg for you to help them die.


"Here's the gun, wear these gloves, and then throw it over the bridge into the river…."


"This is a cocaine dealer. Here's $200. Meet him at Park Street. I'll go out in peace, just clean up before you dial 911. Tonight. Do it!"


"Call Roger, tell him to get me some Valium, 100 of the 5's. Tonight. Here's $500. He knows where. Just wait for his call and meet him later."


Day after day, demanding I go along with these schemes to assist in his death. He was in so much pain. He just wanted to die.


It was a Sunday in May, Mother's Day, the sky was parakeet blue. He sent the boys out for the morning. It was just as though he was the Jim Lenahan in the days of laughing and storytelling, and that sparkle was in his Irish eyes….it all came back to him, to us. He took me in his arms, unsteadily at first, and then whirled me around a few times, laughing and dancing, until we fell on the bed. When I looked up at him, his eyes were open, and he was smiling.


I knew he was gone.

I did not authorize an autopsy. They assumed he died from complications of his recent heart surgery.


I was most thankful that he no longer had to suffer the anguish, and that the last few moments of his life were happy.