There was no way for me to tell her that the compressions was useless, and those pills had long since stopped my heart. I lay there, feeling indifferent to everything, even my wife’s futile attempts to revive me. I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and despite the best efforts of modern medicine, my body was shutting down. My wife had been the one constant in my life, but even she couldn’t save me. I wondered what would become of her once I was gone. Would she move on and find someone else to love? Or would she spend the rest of her days mourning me? The uncertainty was overwhelming, and I wished I could be there for her, but it was too late. All that remained was the sound of the bed springs squeaking beneath us, a cruel reminder of how alive she was and how fast I was fading away.
