He lies there, all withered and dried and old. The rails on the bed remind me of prison bars, the bonds on his wrists of chains. They have bound him for his own protection. I see him strain fruitlessly at his bonds from time to time. He kicks and shifts and moves his feet almost continuously. That's all of the freedom he has left now and he seems determined to use it. Is he fighting to live or fighting to die?

He is so alone. There is someone with him always, but he doesn't know. They can give him no comfort now because he doesn't see them; he doesn't hear them. He is alone. Should it be this hard? Is this what we fear about dying? Is it the waiting, the prolongation of the inevitable? Is it the pain, the discomfort, the indignities we suffer when the end result is the same? So do we fear death or do we fear dying? Death is so simple. It's the dying that hurts.

I sit here watching him, expecting each breath to be his last. Sometimes he hardly seems to breath at all. Is the primordial spark of life this strong in all of us? He is old; he is tired; he is very sick. There is nothing the doctors can do. Yet his body fights on for that extra breath, that extra heartbeat. Why? Does hope truly spring eternal from man's soul? Is it for the sake of the ones being left behind? Or are we all meant to leave this life fighting and kicking the way we came in?

At times he struggles to reach the feeding tube that gives him so much discomfort. I take his hand to end his reaching. The strength of the return grip surprises me. It seems to be a strength born of fear and loneliness and a need for someone, either family or friend, that he never seemed to show before. Does he know to whom the other hand belongs? I think not. I hope he knows that it belongs to someone he knew at one time and who cares enough to be here with him now.

There must be an easier way to die.

In the early hours of the morning this room has a chill. Yet I seem to be alone in feeling it. Could this be a chill of my mind I feel with my body? It seems to come almost from within. Hospital rooms are so cold, impersonal and stark. Green plaid shades provide the only color. There is no comfort in these rooms. It seems strangely ironic that in this place there work people who care for him and others like him and spend their lives offering warmth and concern, yet do so in a place that displays none of those things. Instead it is clean and sterile, devoid of human touch or feeling. It's almost as if these were felt to be dangerous to the health of the patient. But they would make the final transition a lot easier and much less frightening.

At times his breathing sounds raspy to my ears. Yet it is a comforting sound. It is a sign of life. Still I wonder if I would be more comforted by the lack of that sign. That would mean his pain would be gone and he would have final peace, if there is such a thing. If not, then at least he would have everlasting rest. I wonder how I would feel if he died while I sit here watching him? Would I feel relieved? Would I be horrified from watching a man die? Would I be calm or hysterical or simply numb? I would be saddened, surely, but would I grieve? As it is I feel no pain or sadness at the thought of his passing, just sorrow at his long, lonely struggle towards it. I wonder if I'll even cry.

There must be an easier way.

Does he believe in God? Does a faith in another life comfort him? How sad it would be to believe in nothing, in simply the end. I believe that at the core of our strength and resiliency as human beings lies the belief in someone or something greater than ourselves who watches over us and takes care of us all of our lives and continues to do so even after death. This is our anchor. To live without this anchor is inconceivable to me. Yet I know there are people who believe in nothing. That must be the ultimate loneliness. I hope he has a faith to cling to now.

I can't imagine what it must feel like to know in the farthest corners of your mind that you are dying and there is nothing to stop it. The only question is when. Yet your heart beats on day after day. Soon time must feel endless; minutes seem like hours, hours seem like days, days seem like weeks. Nothing but time to wonder, "Will this day be my last? Will this breath be my last? Will the end never come?"

I wonder how the others feel. They have to wait for the inevitable, too. At least we've been given a chance to prepare for it, a chance to dull the shock of it coming. It is hard to see the pain in their eyes as they watch him, the knowing in their faces as they wait. The family has the hardest task in the end, the living beyond the death. This is why we grieve, not for his loss but for ours. Not because he is no longer with us, but because he is there and we're still here. I feel I need to be strong for them.

Sunlight streams through the windows. My long, lonely vigil is over and he has survived another night. Soon there will be someone here to relieve me. In the cold morning light he has seemed to grow smaller. He is pale and gaunt. He has scabs and bruises on his arms from where his skin is weak or useless. His wrists are purple from the bonds. He struggles futilely to remove the tube. He moans or cries from time to time. He is alone and afraid and tied like an animal. Is there in death no dignity?

There has to be an easier way.

End