A Deathly Parting

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“I love you,” I said, weakly.

She smiled at me, and pushed away the forms she had just counter-signed.  It was official: I would be able to choose when I died.  I had seen too many loved ones waste away slowly to cancer - I wanted to be in control, and she, my dear wife, had consented to help.

The nurse packed away her things and left.  My wife stood at the curtains, watching her car pull out of our drive.  She then approached the bed, rearranged my pillows to make me comfortable, and reached up to inject a clear liquid into my drip.

“What are you doing?” I asked, startled.

She put down the empty syringe and took my hand gently.  “What we agreed, dear.”

“But,” I cried, “that was only supposed to be much later!?”

I tried to reach over to pull out the drip from my arm, but she held me down firmly and said,  "No sense putting off for tomorrow what we can do today.  You always were a terrible procrastinator, and I have things to do."
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