A Happy Marriage by Rafael Yglesias Page B

more, and pass into a coma after four or five days, six at the most. Once she was comatose, Margaret’s breathing would become rapid, shallow, and irregular, sometimes ceasing for what might appear to be forever before resuming its rapid pace in a startling fashion. She might also make the guttural sound that literature fancifully called the death rattle but that was actually the result of accumulating secretions in the throat and did not necessarily signal that death was imminent. Without hydration, her heart would stop after seven days, eight at the outside. Other than a drying out of her mouth, nasal passages, and throat, the process was not painful, and anyway those discomforts wouldn’t arise for Margaret until she was in a coma. Since all liquids she took by mouth were drained through her stomach PEG, she could drink freely while conscious and thoroughly alleviate the dryness without prolonging her life. If there were any discomfort, physical or psychological, she would be given painkillers or Ativan to hurry her into unconsciousness. “It will be very quick once we stop all hydration,” the doctor repeated. “Just a few days before you become very sleepy. Is that how fast you want it to go?”
    Margaret at last showed some impatience. “Yes! If this were Oregon, I’d just have you shoot me in the head.”
    The hospice doctor flinched. In a low voice, with a shy glance at Enrique, she said, “Actually, there are studies which show deliberate suicide, even in hopelessly terminal patients when death is imminent, is very hard on”—she met Margaret’s eyes—“not you, but the family members.”
    For a moment, Margaret didn’t move a muscle, eyes unblinking, expression blank, as if she didn’t understand what she had just been told or was so struck by the information that she needed to think hard about it. Her great blue eyes remained fixed on Dr. Ko, who waited quietly for her patient to react. Enrique knew his wife was not considering what had been said. This silence and this stare were familiar. It was how Margaret reacted to her mother scolding or nagging her. It was how Margaret defied Enrique when he got angry, a resistance at once passive and unmovable. Gandhi would have envied it.
    But this time Margaret surprised him. She turned to regard Enrique as if just noticing that he had come into the room. “I know it’s terrible what I’m doing,” she said. It wasn’t clear if she was speaking to him, or to the doctor, or to God. “I’m putting it all on poor Endy,” she said, using another of her nicknames for him. “But he’s so strong.” Water glistened in her eyes and he felt sure these were not chemo tears. “He can take it. Right, baby? You can do this for me?”
    Natalie Ko didn’t understand what Margaret was asking. She answered, “This is fine. This way is okay for families. This is a good way to do it.”
    Enrique understood. Margaret had realized that her practical need to die as easily and quickly as possible might feel to his heart like cruel abandonment. He moved to the bed and took her hand. “I’m okay, baby,” he whispered. “We’ll have time together and you’ll be comfortable. This is good,” he said and had to stop because tears were rising and he knew they both needed to be calmwith this doctor. Margaret wanted to leave her life gracefully and at home in their bed. He was determined she get that wish.
    While Enrique studied the calendar to find options to accommodate the great Bernard Weinstein’s apparently very tight schedule, he knew, almost to the day, how much time was left. Seven days of steroids and full hydration for the good-byes, seven more until death. Fourteen days of Margaret.
    Seven of those days and nights would go to others, unavailable to him for their final conversation. Of course Lily would come every day for a few hours all the way to the end. And Margaret’s parents had announced, distressingly, that they intended to visit each day of the final