Free Diagnosis Death by Richard L. Mabry Page B

support and let him die with dignity."
    "I just don't know if I can do that."
    "It's hard," Elena said. "But not doing it can lead to things that are much harder."
    Mrs. Pulliam put her hand on Elena's arm. "Would you mind staying here with Chester for a few minutes? I want to walk down to the coffee shop. I need to get away for a bit. And somehow, I can't leave him alone."
    "Of course. I'll be here when you get back."
    The woman kissed her husband's forehead. She'd taken two steps toward the door when she turned back and kissed his cheek once more. "I love you, Chester."
    Alone in the room with Chester Pulliam, Elena pulled a chair to his bedside. She drew back the sheet a bit to expose his hand. Gently, she covered it with her own.
    A tap on the door jarred her away from her thoughts. Elena turned to see a nurse peek into the room, wheeling a medication cart in front of her. "Oh, Dr. Gardner."
    "I can step out if you like."
    "No, I was just checking on him. Do you think there's any change?" This wasn't the nurse who'd avoided her earlier. This one seemed to care.
    Elena glanced at the woman's nametag. "Not for the better, Ann. And I don't think there'll be any. Do you?"
    "No, I don't." The nurse nodded toward the figure on the bed. "It's pitiful, isn't it? You're so good to stand by Mrs. Pulliam through this. I know it can't be easy. I hope you help her do the right thing."
    A beeping noise issued from Ann's pocket. She consulted her pager. "Oh, they need me stat. I guess the cart will be safe here with you." She looked up and it seemed that her gaze went to the center of Elena's soul. "I'll pray for you." With that, Ann hurried away.
    Elena tried to recall all the people who'd told her they'd be praying for her. Most of her recent thoughts had been questions, not supplications, but surely God would count them as prayers. Other than that, she hadn't prayed since Mark's death.
    She closed the door and began to look around the room. Everything she saw reminded her of a way to end Pulliam's marginal existence.
    The most obvious action would be to disconnect the respirator from his endotracheal tube. Two or three minutes, and it would be over.
    She scanned the medication cart. Pills? It would be difficult to get them down the feeding tube. Something injected? The IV had been removed, but there were needles and syringes on Ann's cart along with vials of various medications. One intramuscular injection would release Chester Pulliam from his prison.
    She looked down at the frail figure on the bed and located the pulsations of his carotid artery. Enough pressure on one spot—a spot she could easily find—and his heart would slow and stop.
    Elena knew how to spare Chester from a living death. If she did that, Erma Pulliam would be spared too—spared the guilt that comes from making the decision that ends the life of a loved one. Sure, she'd grieve for a while, but eventually she'd move on. She wouldn't be tied for who knows how long to a husband whose brain no longer functioned, whose body shriveled with contractures and wept with bedsores.
    Mrs. Pulliam was waffling. Elena recognized all the signs. And delaying the decision would just bring about a host of problems. Chester would have recurring kidney infections because of his catheter. Despite frequent suctioning through his tracheotomy, pneumonia would finally come. The staff would turn him frequently, but eventually he'd develop decubitus ulcers—ugly sores that smelled foul and ran pus, poisoning his system. He'd shrink to a husk of the man Erma Pulliam had known. And thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, his life—if you could call it life—would go on.
    Elena could prevent all that. And that knowledge was what made her heart sink, as she stood alone at the bedside, pondering what to do.
    Twenty minutes later, Elena tapped the keys of a computer in the hospital library to call up the last of the articles and research papers she needed. She snatched the papers from