Undue Influence

Prologue

There is a special clarity of thought, an unclouded focus which is granted to those who shed all fear and panic, who in the end stare death in the eye, and who leave this world on their own terms.

It was this clarity of mind that, in those final days, gave Nikki a superiority of will that I could not resist. Lingering as she was on the edge of death, I found myself unable to refuse her a thing. She would merely ask, and it would be as if she had cast some indefinable spell. All I could say was yes. Floating on an ether of immeasurable courage in a sea of white sheets and pillows, in her last days Nikki finally found her own form of undue influence over me.

Nikki’s doctors said she had a virulent strain. They called it ‘small oat cell cancer.’ Before they could move, it had metastasized, migrating from the lungs to a dozen other organs.

In those weeks after the funeral, when I finally came to dodge my own self-pity, I dwelled most on the irony. That Nikki, who had never touched a cigarette in her life, who on sensing any negligible odor of smoke would turn on her heel and walk from the most crowded restaurant, who swore off as the foulest of vices all forms of tobacco — that Nikki should die of lung cancer.

It was just eleven months from diagnosis to death. It has become the mirror image of a nightmare where sanctuary is found in the wakened mind. My only peace with Nikki’s death now comes when I can sleep. And it seems I am condemned to insomnia.

The lawyer in me demands some explanation, some cause to which I can affix blame — not for the usual reasons of money damages, but to make sense of this, to give our existence symmetry, some rational design. My lawyer’s mind turns, even in its rare moments of sleep, searching for some reason, a logical accounting for this loss, this deprivation now shared with my daughter, Sarah, who is seven. But as to the question of why, there seems no answer. When I told them Nikki never smoked, our family doctor and the oncologist both looked at me skeptically. This was the classic case of smoker’s cancer, they told me. And by their looks, the expressions they flashed to each other, lighted by the muted glow of backlit X rays, they squeezed out and conferred their benefit of doubt on me, meager as it was.

Our eighteen years had been a rocky marriage at best, more my fault than hers. An affair during our separation, now some years ago, the constant strain of my law practice — the eternal jealous mistress. Each of these brought their own form of anguish to Nikki. Now I read with increased emphasis articles in popular literature linking cancer to stress, and wonder to what degree Nikki’s life was shortened by me.

The therapist to whom I trekked for weeks after Nikki’s death — a referral from my physician — told me this was normal, the phase of guilt. He tells me disdain for my dead wife will come next, a loathing that she has left me behind to struggle alone. Each, he says, is an aspect through which I must pass, like the portals of life.

Before, when I shared the trauma of her looming death with Nikki, it was always easier. When she was diagnosed, we entered the phase of denial together. The tests were wrong. She was healthy and young. The doctors, with all of their science, after all, could not test or measure her will to live. We would beat this thing together, subdue the demon inside her body by sheer force of will if necessary. My conversations with Nikki were laced with bravado, though to my own ear my words too often resonated with fear.

In the end it was Nikki who accepted the truth first, leaving me behind to grasp at the haggard images of naked hope, my dreams of last-minute miracle cures from the shelves of science. Toward the end I found myself in silent bargains with a higher being with whom over the years I have not been on familiar terms.

When I finally subdued my panic, I caught up to Nikki in the serenity of her own acceptance. One afternoon she took my hand, and in the dappled sunlight of our yard, she told me that she had two wishes: to die quietly with her family in her own home, free from the contraptions of modern medicine, and another more personal request that I now fulfill.