On My Deathbed, She Wants a Confession
It's my third year living with ALS, and my 11th day since losing the ability to speak completely. My wife, Renee Sutton, bursts into my hospital room with a lawyer and a notary in tow, gripping a so-called expert report that concludes all of my symptoms can be faked.
She throws it onto my bed.
"Miles, you're really a hell of an actor," she says. "You had me fooled for three years. Today, you're finally going to tell the truth."
I look at her and open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
She shoves a divorce agreement in front of me. "Sign it. Admit you faked your illness to swindle marital assets. You're not walking away with a single cent."
I look down at the pen, then at my right hand lying motionless on the sheet. Her eyes hold nothing but a cold sneer.
"Still faking? Fine. Keep faking.
"Back then, you told me you didn't love me anymore, and I believed you. You said you wanted to marry that older woman, and I believed that too.
"Now you've circled back and landed flat on your back, needing someone to take care of you. Did you really think I'd go soft on you again?"
A nurse rushes in from the hallway and forces a writing board into my stiff left hand. "Ms. Sutton, he had a tracheotomy just yesterday! This board is the only way he can speak!"
Renee stares at the board. Her expression slowly shifts as she lowers her head to look. Scrawled across it, in two shaky words, is my answer. I pour the last of my strength into every stroke.
"I'm sorry."