I peer through the screen door. David's asleep, in bed, in the middle of the living room, now the dying room. He's sitting up, hunched over, his chin resting on his chest, his mouth curled in a thin, slobbered grimace.

I knock. His head flops back. He wipes drool from his chin, looks at the door, and motions. “Hey doc, I been waitin’ for ya. Come on in, grab ya a seat, the party's about to begin.” He snorts. “That's a joke—the party part, I mean.”

His husband Ira walks from the kitchen and unlocks the door. We hug. I walk to the bed and hug David. He's skin and skeleton, his bones draped with bags of flesh.

“How ya doin’, doc?”

“I'm fine, David, how are you doing?”

“Well, considerin’ I'm dyin’, I guess I'm doin’ okay. Ira says I'm down to 75 pounds, so he's makin’ protein shakes with ice cream.”

“You still using marijuana?” I ask.

“Oh God, doc, I couldn't survive without it, though we've had some trouble gettin’ it lately. S'posed to get a couple bags tonight. But I'm always afraid it's gonna be laced with somethin’. I wish this damn state would legalize it, ‘specially for the dyin’, but I don't see that happenin’ any time soon, too many Republicans.” He crumbles a marijuana leaf and rolls a joint. “Want a toke, doc?” He smirks.

“I'm afraid I can't, but I'll tell you what, in the 60s, there wasn't enough acreage to keep me supplied,” I grin.

Ira pulls up a chair and sits down beside me. He takes a long breath. “Doctor,” he says, “David and I have been discussing assisted suicide. David wants control, he wants to say when he'll die; I think he's owed that choice.”

“Assisted suicide?” I'm taken aback, and surprised.

“Yes doctor.”

We sit in an uneasy quiet.

David breaks the silence. “I guess they don't call it suicide anymore do they, doc?” He takes a puff from the joint, holds it in, and blows a cloud of smoke. “I was lookin’ on the internet, and saw where they got all fancy and call it aid in dyin’ now.” He offers me the joint. “Take a hit, doc.”

“I wish David, I wish…,” I say.

Ira interrupts, his words scolding. “David, just stop it, he can't smoke.” He turns to look at me. “So doctor, what do you think? Can you help us?”

“David, we discussed sedating you, if necessary, and letting you die that way. You've changed your mind?”

“Doc, I decided I don't want to linger, it'd be hard on Ira, and I love him too much to do that to him. And from my readin’, I could hang around for days if I'm sedated. I just wanna go as fast as I can when the time comes. Ya know?”

“I do,” I say, “but if we use sedation when it's needed, when you're close to death, I don't think you'll linger for days.”

“Doctor, David wants to die within hours; sedation can't guarantee that. He's suffered horribly with this disease, socially and physically; he just wants control.”

“Ira, I understand what you're saying, but…”

Ira sighs into stillness.

“Let's all get high,” David shouts as a belch rolls up from his belly.

“David, please, enough with the smoking. We're trying to discuss your death.” Ira's angry. “Doctor, can you prescribe Ativan for David? If you'll do that, I'll collect the pills, and when I have enough, and David's ready, I'll mix a slurry of morphine and Ativan. We have Zofran; I'll premedicate him so he doesn't vomit.”

We sit in a smoky, stilted silence.

After a few moments, Ira clasps his hands together and places them on his lap. “Doctor, I know it's illegal in this state, and I know the criminality of the act. I also know the moral and ethical arguments, but they dissipate when you're at the bedside watching someone suffer, particularly when that suffering is avoidable. In a secular society, there'd be no opposition to assisted suicide; religion gets in the way.”

My mind struggles for words; I'm scuffling with a two-headed beast: my head and heart. My head says no, my heart says yes.

“Ira, David's very sick, what would you do if he declined before you were able to collect enough Ativan?”

“In that situation, we'd consider sedation, wouldn't we, David?” David nods.

“Ira, I'm a believer in aid in dying, and I'd like to help you and David, but I need to consider the consequences. We could both be implicated in a criminal death, and imprisoned. It's not right, but it's the law.” I look at David, his head slumped; I feel selfish and uncaring.

“Doctor,” Ira says, “no one would know, and no offense intended, but those are lip-service words. If you won't help us, we'll find a new physician. I hope you understand.”

David lets out a sigh that turns into a cough that turns into a sob.

I take a deep breath. “If you would have just asked for Ativan without telling me your plan…”

Ira clears his throat. “Doctor, David's having considerable anxiety; could we have some Ativan to calm him?”