Some decisions are hard to make and haunting

These are Earl's words, not mine, and what follows is the story of an ailing soul in search of the end of life. Earl will speak to you, hopefully, amputating one of the tormentors from the body of his dark list.

I have a list. This short list cannot be found on a piece of paper nor in the hard drive of a computer; nevertheless, it is a list-- a register of sorts, I suppose; and albeit I have not previously spoken of this assortment of items, the list is real. These torturous thoughts live only in my mind and I must sort out each and every one of them lest they take me to the edge of complete darkness and, ultimately, the intolerable suffering of hopelessness will surely plunge me into the black hole of madness, a madness that will most assuredly be the end of me.

There is no easier or more compassionate way to say it: my wife of many years was dying. As hard and difficult as the last 18 months of the visits to the doctor's office had been, the last one had surely been the most daunting. The doctor and nurse entered the small room and, with solemn faces, uttered the words both I and my wife had feared so much: "I'm sorry," the doctor said. "There is nothing more that can be done. It's time for you to go home and get your affairs in order. I'm so very sorry."

Lark created an uneasy partnership with the ravenous disease that was slowly consuming her life. It's hard to say how and when this occurred, but she got used to being sick and I got used to the new person who had over the years seamlessly transitioned into an old woman. This new person was someone who had surrendered to the disease and found that she must reluctantly accept the inevitable, that inevitable being her death.

Heeding the doctor's words and advice, Lark and I went home, as the physician suggested. Lark began to get her affairs in order. There wasn't much to do, organize some pictures in family photo albums, write goodbye letters to close friends, and watch the red and orange sunsets as they painted the warm evening skies.

We talked more about our children and the lives we had been so fortunate to spend with one another, but Lark never talked about her impending death. I always believed that her wish was to spare me the thoughts of that event, but the idea of a life without her never seemed to be far from my thoughts.

As the days passed, Lark became weaker and she could no longer care for herself. Even with my assistance, her care was tasking both our limits, and the time had come to reluctantly bring hospice into the equation.

I had come to dread Eva's visits. The hospice nurse came one or two times a week and delivered various bottles and boxes of medicines. She examined Lark and afterward the two of us would walk outside to talk. The conversations always ended with her opinion about when the end of Lark, my wife, would come.

Then there came that day when Eva brought the white paper sack. I didn't say much as I opened the front door.

"Hi," were the only words I cared to speak.

"Hi, how are you doing?" she replied. I didn't answer as she walked into the living room.

"How's Lark doing?" she asked. "Okay, I guess but, to be honest, much worse."

Eva carried the white sack into the kitchen and placed in on the granite counter top, leaving it there without speaking of its contents. Eva conducted a cursory examination of Lark which included an attempt to engage the dying woman in conversation, but that attempt was strictly one-sided. Lark lay motionless with closed eyes and did not, or maybe could not, respond to the nurse's words.

The nurse sighed as she returned to the kitchen, "I need to talk to you about the contents of the sack. I brought you vials of morphine and some pipits or droppers. Now morphine is an extremely potent pain reliever and it will alleviate the pain Lark must surely feel."

I asked, "How often should I give the drug to her and in what dosage?"

"Well, that depends. If she appears to be in pain, give her a few drops, but if you feel that amount didn't help, well that's up to you. If I were in your position, I wouldn't want Lark to suffer. I can tell you, as I am required to do, that too much morphine might cause her to expire but, again, if it was me, I wouldn't want my loved one to suffer. Lark has no more than a day or two left."

"Nature provides a final path for each of us to take and a pace at which we get there. I have been a hospice nurse for some twenty-five odd years now and I have seen a lot. Without any evidence, but with the utmost confidence, I can say that there have been times when human intervention has altered that path provided by nature and the pace getting to the final destination has been manipulated and quickened. Please don't forget about the bottles of morphine in that bag."

After Eva left, and only after listening to the sound of her car as it drove away, did I begin to understand the message hidden within her words. I knew in my heart what Lark wanted. At least I tried to convince myself of that. I told myself that none of us can fully understand the thoughts of a dying person without speaking to them but, in this case, Lark hadn't spoken a single word in days, nor had she made the slightest of movement.

I moved across the room and, for a moment, silently sat beside my wife, the love of my life, Lark. As I sat with my head resting in my hands, Lark raised her frail hand so slowly and using only her index finger motioned for me to come closer. I leaned over and, as my eyes looked into hers, she softly spoke to me.

"It's okay. I know about the morphine and I'll love you forever. It's okay and it's what I want."

I softly placed a kiss on her forehead and I want to believe that I saw a smile, but maybe I just wanted to see one as I hadn't seen her smile in such a very long time.

Within us there dwells the innate will to live, but for some that need to survive, that most basic of instincts which has been passed on for eons and eons, has been replaced, replaced with the will and even the desire to die. Lark died sometime during that darkest of summer nights.

There are moments when life can seem so very unfair. These defining moments present us with conundrums that present us with two seemingly impossible choices, neither of which is completely right or wrong. The most terrible part about the choice we make is that we are forced to live with that decision for the rest of our lives.

Some decisions are hard to make, and I was once compelled to make the hardest and most difficult decision one human being could ever be forced to make. I now find that guilt, rather real or imagined, is a terrible thing to live with. May God forgive me.

I have now spoken of this and I will remove the item from my list.

Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. Opinions are those of the author.