Davesatontheedgeofhisbedinfreshpajamas,catching
his breath, and Creed spoke to him as his daughter,
Ashlee,raninandoutoftheroominherbeadedpigtails,
depositing stuffed animals in her dad’s lap.
“How’s your pain on a scale of one to ten?” Creed asked.
“A six,” he said.
“Did you hit the pump?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “I’m reluctant,” he
admitted.
“Why?” Creed asked.
“It feels like defeat,” he said.
“Defeat?”
“Idon’twanttobecomeadrugaddict,”heexplained.“I
don’t want to need this.”
Creedgotdownonherkneesinfrontofhim.“Dave,I
don’t knowanyonewhocanmanage thiskind ofpain
without the medication,” she said. “It’s not defeat.
You’vegotabeautifulwifeanddaughter,andyou’renot
going to be able to enjoy them with the pain.”
“You’rerightaboutthat,”hesaid,lookingatAshleeas
she gave him a little horse. And he pressed the button.
DaveGallowaydiedoneweeklater—athome,atpeace,
andsurrounded byfamily.Aweek afterthat,LeeCox
died,too.Butasiftoshowjusthowresistanttoformula
humanlivesare,Coxhadneverreconciledherselftothe
incurability ofherillnesses.Sowhenher familyfound
her in cardiac arrest one morning, they followed her