End of Days: a story in 60 seconds

Every morning is a gift

He took his wife’s hand and held it gently. Today her skin felt particularly dry and withered— such a departure from the woman he had fallen in love with nearly half a century ago.

Suddenly, she began to cough, so he rubbed her back and lifted a cup to her lips.

“Let’s try to drink some water,” he whispered. “It’ll all be okay.”

A nurse from the hospice center entered the room quietly.

“Does she need anything?” she asked.

“No, I think we’re alright,” the man replied. “But maybe some hot tea might help.”

The nurse nodded. “And, as you know,” she said softly, “we have treatments available to help make your wife feel more comfortable…”

“KEEP THE DRUGS AWAY FROM ME!” the woman shouted from her hospital bed. “I refuse to die a vegetable!”

The outburst startled the nurse.

The woman’s husband leaned over the side of the hospital bed and lightly pressed his forehead to hers. Then, he pursed his lips and made a soft, soothing noise until his wife closed her eyes.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized. “We’re having a bad day.”

The nurse smiled sympathetically. She made to leave the room but then paused and motioned the man over with a slight wave of her hand.

“I know this is against protocol,” she said quietly, “but one of my colleagues has developed a new form of end-of-life care. They’re calling it ‘the gift.’ The treatment isn’t widely available, but the initial trial results have been nothing short of remarkable. Would you like me to inquire?”

“Oh, thank you. But I don’t think she’d be interested,” he murmured, glancing past the nurse toward his sleeping wife. “Not at this point, anyway.”

The nurse nodded. “I understand. Yes, it’s not for everyone. I’ll go grab the tea…”

“Wait!” he called out lightly. “Can you at least explain how it works?”

The nurse smiled. “Yes, of course. The concept is quite ingenious, really. It’s a daily pill that your wife takes every night before bed. However—and here’s what makes it so unique—each pill will have a one in three hundred sixty-five chance of containing a fatal dose of piperidine alkaloids, a compound derived from the hemlock plant.”

“Hemlock…?” he muttered, clearly perplexed by the whole thing. “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting I poison my wife?”

“No, no, not at all,” the nurse said calmly. “The goal of the treatment is to reconfigure the patient’s outlook. By facing her own mortality each night, your wife will effectively replace that seemingly unshakeable sense of impending doom and helplessness with a feeling of immense gratitude for each new morning. Hence the name: ‘the gift.’”

“What? That’s insane.” The man shook his head. “No, no…I could never agree to it.”

The nurse shrugged. “Maybe you should let her decide.”

Maybe you should let her decide. “You’re right,” he finally admitted after a few moments. “I’ll ask her and see what she wants. It’s the proper thing to do...”

A week later, he was back in the hospice center. He sat beside his wife and massaged her hand with a lavender-scented cream as he hummed her favorite song.

“Well, this is nice,” she murmured dreamily.

“Wait till I have the nurse bring you a bowl of strawberry ice cream,” he said, grinning.

His wife closed her eyes. “I love you,” she said weakly. “And I’m so relieved to see you smiling again. We’ve been in such a dark place.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his hand against her cheek. “It’s been hard. But we’ll get through it. As long as we remember that every day is a gift.”