
Terminal Illness Revelry: Her Last DinnerWhen my wife, Rosalie Wood, had her first meal after she regained consciousness, the attending doctor, Ethan Joeman, took my seat. He cut the steak while he pointed at her rosy face and looked at me with open defiance.
“Do you know how medical miracles happen? It is not because of your constant presence. It is because of my in‑depth treatment.”
My fingers that held the knife and fork turned pale.
Ethan grew even more brazen. His feet rubbed against my wife's calves under the table.
“A person in a vegetative state can still feel things. Every night after you left, I did awakening therapy for her. She said her body could not move, yet the sense of being conquered made her feel as though her soul left her body. She woke up because she wanted to feel it again. Last night, she said she wanted to thank her savior and asked me to check her firmness after recovery. She did not disappoint me.”
I looked at Rosalie, who stared at the doctor with admiration, and my chest tightened.
To pay for her treatment, I sold my house and car. I slept on a folding bed in this hospital for three years. I bathed her and turned her over every day.
It turned out that my three years of round‑the‑clock care meant nothing compared to a few acts of harassment committed while she was vulnerable.
I took a drug from my bag and smiled as I poured Ethan a glass of wine. I thought, ‘You went through a lot, yet her awakening was only a brief moment of clarity before death. She has super‑drug‑resistant syphilis. Congratulations. You caught it too.’