Tuesday, January 18, 2011
She was barely conscious when he got back from the bathroom. He had gone to wash his hands in preparation for the injection, as if it mattered whether his hands were clean. She wasn’t going to get an infection. She wasn’t going to live another five minutes. He opened the drawer from Mary’s bedside table and pulled out the box that held the equipment he needed. He tied the rubber tubing halfway up her bicep and filled the syringe from the bottles they had hoarded. They had removed the IVs two weeks ago as the hospice worker instructed, but she hadn’t died. He kissed her. She fluttered her eyelids. Should he wait? Was she trying to say something? The last time she could communicate was over a week ago and she made him promise then to go through with it on her birthday. Her birthday was yesterday. He found a vein, inserted the needle, closed his eyes and pushed the plunger.