“Why is that?” she asked tentatively. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I was somebody else back then. It’s kind of a long story.”
"Well, I’m not going anywhere. I have plenty of time to listen.”
Lance’s expression turned thoughtful. “I had a wife,” he said finally. “And I lost her.”
He had been a different person then, with a different name. As Sullivan Proctor, he had worked as a CPA for Boyd Wilkins, a large accounting firm where he was just another face in the break room, just another suit and tie in a cubicle. He had assumed he was happy. Ellen was still alive and he was moving up the corporate ladder, taking classes to advance his degree. They’d had the requisite three-bedroom, two-bath home in the suburbs with a patio for cooking out and a privacy-fenced yard where their eventual children would hopefully scamper. Sully to his wife and friends, Sullivan had been just another ordinary man living an ordinary life. Although he did not involve himself in politics, clubs, or causes, he thought of himself as an educated liberal-minded guy. He woke looking forward to each day and encountered relatively few rough waters on the ocean of his life. Until Ellen got sick, that is.
It was a stroke that got her. Out of the blue. Not the kind of stroke where a blood clot develops and makes its evil way into the skull, but severe hemorrhagic stroke. She bled out into her brain. He had found her unconscious on the treadmill, dressed in her exercise clothes. Having no idea how long she had lain there, or even what was wrong with her, his shaking fingers dialed 911. The moments and days that followed were a blur in his mind.
The fear and sorrow of Ellen’s illness drained him. As days turned to weeks, he juggled hospital visits with his work schedule and dropped out of school altogether. His interest in work waned, and he did the bare minimum to get by, always anxious to return to Ellen’s side and watch for any little sign of recovery. He thought of Ellen’s parents as the walking wounded. In the first days, they had hung by Ellen’s bedside, their eyes red but hopeful. His own parents moved in and out of the room like shadows, taking care of things at the house, silently doing the practical chores, their quiet strength reinforcing him, holding him up.
The medical staff was excellent at first, very understanding and caring. But as time went on, their attitudes shifted. They began dropping hints about “quality of life” and “letting go”. At some point, even Ellen’s parents began to look at him with pity when he spoke optimistically about Ellen’s eventual recovery. They said they had come to understand their Ellen was gone, that it was time to let go. But what it amounted to, in his opinion, was that they had given up hope, and he resented them for it.
It was with supposed kindness, and in a roundabout way, suggested to Sullivan by well-intentioned others that he was selfish, clinging to a woman whose life was technically over, a shell of a body kept alive by artificial means. But Sullivan would not give up. It seemed he was the only one who saw small signs of a living Ellen submerged inside the husk, struggling to return to him. The doctors called it wishful thinking on his part, her small movements nothing but normal mindless responses, mere reflexes. Sullivan disagreed. He simply knew she was still in there, sleeping maybe, but nonetheless alive and vital. Even when presented with proof of her reduced brain activity, he never wavered because he simply couldn't accept the test results. He believed that Ellen, held down by the invisible force of coma, but still feeling and thinking down deep inside, was trying to fight her way back to him. He just knew it. She was his Sleeping Beauty. If only a kiss was all it took to awaken her.
One morning the doctor requested a meeting with Sullivan. He left work and rushed to the hospital, hoping to hear that Ellen had awakened, shown some signs of life, or about a new treatment option or medication. Instead, the doctor had asked him to consider allowing Ellen to die. He suggested removing the feeding tube and withholding fluids.
“My god!” Sullivan had railed. “You can’t be serious. That’s unthinkable! You want to starve her to death?” Unbidden, a memory of an argument in the lawyer’s office sprang into his mind, but he pushed it aside.
“Now, now,” the doctor had soothed. “She wouldn’t starve; technically she would dehydrate. This is not a painful way to go.” His bedside manner was the worst Sully had ever encountered.
“How the hell would you know?” Sullivan had challenged. “You haven’t experienced it. Yet you want to deny a helpless woman the water and food she needs to survive? What kind of ghoul are you?”
“I resent that.” The doctor had pulled himself up to his full height. “What I’m suggesting is standard practice in many of these cases. Ellen wouldn’t want to live this way. You need to accept that. We would give her morphine and she would feel no pain. She would just slide into death easily. It’s cruel to keep her alive in this condition.”
“You have no idea what Ellen would want. Besides, she’s going to recover,” Sullivan said, pacing the small conference room.
“Actually, I do know what Ellen wanted,” the doctor said, his voice cold. “Her family doctor and I recently conferred regarding this case, and Dr. Alfron produced an advanced directive signed by Ellen herself. Somehow this document slipped through the cracks in the beginning.” The doctor sighed. “Contrary to what you may believe, Ellen made her wishes very clear. Unfortunately we didn’t have this document when she was admitted to the hospital. Now we must do the right thing and honor her request.”
Sullivan felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Ellen had gone ahead, then, he thought. Without telling me. His heart pounded in his throat at the news, but he fought the good fight anyway.
“We don’t have to do any such thing. I don’t know what kind of sadist you are, but I don’t want you touching my wife again. I don’t trust you anymore. You’re fired!”
He started to storm from the room but whirled around. “In fact, I don’t trust the staff here either. I’m not immune to their little digs and jabs. I don’t think they have Ellen’s best interests at heart. And after what you just said, I know you certainly don’t. I’ll drag your ass to court, if I have to.”
“That’s fine with me,” the doctor said dispassionately. “But you must know that the courts will probably side against you since your wife had papers legally drawn up with her wishes.” He paused. “I was hoping you’d be reasonable, but apparently you lack the strength yet to let her go. Frankly, we can’t keep her here, occupying a bed that could be used for someone else. And, I’m not going to authorize any more therapy for her. It’s a waste of time and resources because she is never going to recover. I suggest you find a long-term care facility that is willing to take her. Oh, and a good lawyer.”
The doctor had turned to leave when Sullivan called him back in a soft voice. “Wait!” he said. “You don’t deserve the title of Doctor. You’re only thinking about the bed you can fill with another victim, another sucker.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” the doctor answered, his lips tight. “You’re overly emotional now. But, someday you’ll see that I’m just trying to do the right thing for my patient.”
“By killing her.”
“By allowing her to die with dignity.”
“Get out of here,” Sullivan whispered, anger and sorrow battling each other as the doctor left the room.
Sullivan called in to work and took the rest of the day off. He scrambled to find a facility that would take Ellen. He called the insurance company. He called Ellen’s family doctor and railed against her for her part in this. There was an unexplainable bad feeling inside him, a sick urgency. It slithered up his back, crept over his neck, and stood his hairs on end. He must get Ellen out of that hospital today!