A Happy Marriage by Rafael Yglesias Page A

intercourse impossible or very painful, and Margaret was insistent, much to Enrique’s surprise, that an alternative be found. He had not flinched or blushed during any of those discussions, but that he wanted to coax his wife to live longer did flush his cheeks and pull his eyes to the floor.
    “Can I really be on steroids for two weeks?” Margaret asked.
    “You can be on them as long as your body can stand it.”
    “Won’t I get an infection?”
    “Eventually, yes. That’s one option of how to end it. If you develop an infection, we could leave it untreated—”
    With a spasm of horror, Margaret said, “I don’t want to die of an infection.” Three times she had suffered through the shaking chills of one-hundred-and-five-degree temperatures. The doctors had claimed she wouldn’t remember much of those delirious nights; some part of her seemed to remember clearly enough.
    “Then a week of full steroids is probably about as long as you should go. But you would still have energy for another week, because I’ll step you down gradually.”
    Margaret shook her head. “Do you have to?”
    “No. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want us to. You’re in charge.” The doctor’s eyes strayed again to the picture of a lively Margaret, blue eyes sparkling, surrounded by her men. Their doorman had taken the photo nine months ago, at Margaret’s request, on the day they told their boys that she was terminal. They stood outside their building: a mother, her husband, and two grown sons. The young men looked straight at the camera without sorrow or tears, defiance or resignation. They seemed to be standing ready, come what may. Enrique’s right arm draped down Margaret’s left, his fingers caressing her wrist protectively, a forced smile on his face. She was also smiling, but without effort, a pleasant, patient, loving, and utterly convincing smile. An intelligent eye could spot that she was wearing a wig. Otherwise this prosperous, slim, handsome, middle-aged woman appeared content and untroubled.
    “After I see everybody…” Margaret swallowed hard and reached for a glass of cranberry juice. Her mouth dried out frequently, despite sipping sweet liquids for the pleasure of their taste. The fluorescent, bright fluid appeared a moment or two later in the translucent bag at the end of the tube exiting her stomach. To spare her visitors the sight of the odd and disgusting mix of bright red juices and black-green bile, it was kept inside a small shopping bag from L’Occitane, resting on the floor. Enrique drained the bag every few hours into a white plastic pitcher that he carried and emptied into the toilet. Mouth moistened, she finished her sentence: “After that week, I want to stop everything.” She gestured at the IV pole on the other side of her bed. Two bags were hanging, one for hydration, the other an antibiotic for her latest infection.
    The thin line of Dr. Ko’s eyebrows furrowed, and her lips pursed dubiously. “Everything at once?”
    Margaret nodded. “Everything,” she whispered firmly.
    Natalie Ko seemed to ignore that request. “You have a couple of alternatives as to how you withdraw hydration. After the first week, I’ll stop the extra nutrients, of course. But as for hydration itself, you’re getting three bags now. The second week you can godown to two, then the third week one bag—” She stopped because Margaret was shaking her head from side to side, slowly but emphatically.
    “No.” Margaret had to blow her nose to clear a drip. “After this week, I want to stop everything. I don’t want to linger. “
    This was not news to Enrique. Nor was the description of how Margaret would deteriorate. A hospice social worker had pointed him to a reputable Internet site to learn about the process. He checked them off in his head while Dr. Ko explained aloud the stages of dying from dehydration. When all intravenous fluids ceased, Margaret would get weaker and weaker, sleep more and