“Three weeks ago the doctor said you only had a month to live.” Wendell Anders sat still digesting the news. His wife went on: “He told me it would be best to wait to tell you until now.”
Wendell thought it through. So! His inoperable tumor was terminal. He had interpreted Dr Sloane’s casual brush off when he had asked about it as a sign that he had nothing to worry about – but now that he thought about it, the brushoff could be taken either way.
He had had no reason to doubt his wife’s word. One of the qualities that had endeared him to her when they met was her inability to lie. Even if she forced herself to tell ‘a little while lie’ for a good cause, the deception could be easily seen through. But anyway he asked, “Honest?”
She nodded and continued. “He said that, uh, death would be slow and painful, and that you should have enough time to, uh, consider other, uh, alternatives.”
Suicide! There was no question of what she was implying. “Thank you for telling me.” he said lamely. Wendell had at one time thought that the doctor and his wife were having an affair, but these thoughts were overwhelmed by others now.
The thought of dying occupied his mind all that day, and he seriously considered painless ways of dying. On his way home from work (he had seen no point in not going) he stopped by a drugstore and purchased a large bottle of sleeping pills. He figured death by overdose in his sleep might ever be quite pleasant.
After an unusually quiet dinner, his wife had gone to bed early leaving him to his thoughts. When he finally prepared for bed, he kissed his wife an extra time and, when she again dozed off, got up to get the sleeping pills. The recommended maximum dosage was two, so he took fifteen, and hurriedly slipped into bed – leaving the bottle of pills and empty glass on the nightstand – so there would not be any questions in the morning. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the pills to take effect. The lamp he had left on seemed to dim as he finally began to doze off.
He thought one last time of his wife and how she could never avoid a direct question. Honest Abigail he had called her. He would miss her.
Then at the edge of sleep, he felt – rather than saw – his wife climb out of bed. He was too tired to turn his head.
He heard another voice, and watched as she and Dr. Sloane came into his field of vision, arm in arm. He had to fight to keep his eyes open.
His wife said: “Yes Wendell, three weeks ago Dr. Sloane said you had only a month to live,” she smiled up at the doctor, “but he lied.”
Wendell’s last thoughts were – “Why – hadn’t – I – asked – herrrr……..?”