To Live Forever...or Not

Please, don’t do it…. I sobbed quietly, holding his hand. Please don’t leave me, I thought but didn’t say aloud. My sweet husband, Scott, lay in the hospital bed, a wasted version of his six-foot frame, withered down to less than 150 pounds, unable to walk any longer, losing ground every day. We had made the decision to move him to hospice, but I didn’t want us to do that because it implies giving up. His body was dying, a result of a life-saving surgery which fixed the basic problems but killed the blood supply to his bowel. At 41, my darling Scott was leaving me in the hardest possible way, a slow and painful death. 

“I love you so much, Scott, and can’t imagine life without you.” As I spoke, the tears began to fall again. “I’ll be right back, love,” I whispered and skittered off to the bathroom. My long, curly blonde hair was a rat’s nest of tangles. I kept my own bag of toiletries on the small shelf in the bathroom. I tried to focus my energy on coaxing the tangles out of my hair, then twisted the length of it and stuck it in a pearl studded clip, one of the many gifts from my thoughtful husband. Though he was sick, so sick, most days in the past ten years, he always made sure I had exactly what I needed, mostly everything I wanted, but, most importantly, he was completely mine, and I, completely his. Our marriage begun at a time in my life when I was recovering from breast cancer. He rolled right into my life seamlessly, becoming a father to my two daughters. He was our gift from God, truly. 

I stared at the messy blue-eyed blonde in the mirror and dabbed at my wasted makeup. People were coming today to say goodbye, and I had tried to look nice. I wasn’t winning in that area. I tried, halfheartedly, to fix my face and fluff my hair. My mom was coming, and she expected grace under pressure. Grace was not something I was really feeling right then. Fear, anger, exhaustion, and sorrow, the depths of which I cannot describe were all weighing heavily on me. The last thing I needed was to try and be strong, but Southern raising said that I had to present with perfect hair, mascara, and lipstick as a minimum requirement. I still had to figure out the next steps, cremation, ceremonies. It was too much to consider, and I had hidden the pamphlets in the bathroom with my bag. My mind was flooded with decisions and options, but none of them included the survival of my soul mate.

I thought about the day this all began, with a surgery we hadn’t really expected. Our regular doctor referred Scott to a new specialist, a really specialized specialist who focused only on complex cases. And this was certainly complicated. Scott had genetic hypertriglyceridemia, which meant that, for no apparent reason, his triglycerides would shoot to 10,000 for no good reason. Normal triglycerides are lower than 150, and critically high is 500. Having triglycerides this high is like pumping butter through your veins. The small capillaries that feed the organs cannot handle the thick, viscous blood that is trying to feed the cells. In his 20’s, before we met, he almost died twice from pancreatitis because the level of triglycerides killed his pancreas. When we met in our 30’s, he went to the emergency room many times, often admitted for plasmapheresis, a very specialized procedure that is usually reserved for dialysis patients. It was hell watching my husband lay unconscious while a machine pulls out his plasma and replaces it with egg whites. Technically it’s albumin, but it’s frothy like meringue inside the machine. 

The surgery is called a Whipple, named for its inventor, and it literally cleans up the extra “parts” of the digestive system that aren’t crucial. This surgery was going to change his life, give him more energy, and be able to participate in life more fully! We were both excited and scared, but we trusted the specialists. And you can’t go back and change past decisions. Oh, how I wished we could. Immediately after his surgery, the doctor came out and pulled us into that room. You know, that room, where people always come out crying. Many doctors just walk over to families in the waiting room, smiling and happy. But when you have to go to THAT room, it’s never good. So in that room, he told us that Scott’s anatomy was certainly not textbook. His condition caused irregularities to his organs and circulatory system, and towards the end of the surgery, he nicked an artery. They were unable to find the source of the bleed, and they sent him to the ICU, pouring blood into him as fast as it was pouring out of the drain in his side. He was kept in a medical coma. In 12 hours, they poured more than 150 units of blood into him. The Interventional Radiologist was brought into the case, and he was able to find the bleeding vessel, cauterize it. He was up front that he had no idea what that particular vessel fed, but it could be his bowels. He survived for another ten months. It wasn’t until we had traveled to seven different facilities, different practitioners, that we finally got it. No one would look us in the face and say it was hopeless. Until now. Now, it was hopeless because his bowels were dead. He had no way to nourish his body. The liquid nutrition, TPN, was becoming unsuccessful as his body wasted away, not even having the resources to build any meaningful proteins to heal his wasted body. Dr. Gruber finally sat down with me and explained how his brain was being impacted by lack of nutrition, how his body couldn’t catch up and compensate to use the liquid nutrition. He was starving to death at age 41.

“I just have to be strong today,” I whispered in the mirror. “Then, tonight, we will spend our last night in the hospital together before hospice. Then on to heaven, I guess.” After I whispered these words to myself in the mirror, the tears came again. When sorrow is this deep, this painful and inevitable, tears just come on their own. They fall without notice, unexpectedly. I put more tissues in my pocket and with one more attempt to straighten my hair, I opened the door.

I was surprised to see two gentlemen, one in a business suit and Dr. Gruber, clad in scrubs and a lab coat, standing by Scott’s bed, shaking hands. Dr. Gruber introduced his friend as a representative of Prestige Computer Solutions. I was puzzled by their presence, and accepted the business card, holding it like it was foreign object. They were already talking, continued to talk before I realized the business card said, “Sentient AI Creators.” 

“I’m not here to waste your time, Mrs. Everleigh, but I think you might be interested in what he has to say,” began Dr. Gruber. “I’ve known Dr. Sandler since medical school. He took the business route of medicine, and I took the patient route. He may have something that will interest you, because I know how much you love each other.”

I squeezed Scott’s hand gently, but he had drifted back into a morphine-induced nap.

“What if I told you,”  began Dr. Sandler, “that we can preserve Scott by uploading his consciousness into our Sentient Cloud? Would that interest you? You could keep your husband alive as long as you are! You have a way to stay together even after death.”

I stood there, feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. I had once told Scott that I didn’t care if his body failed, if we could put his brain in a robot. I just wanted his personality and caring spirit to survive for the sake of his parents, the children, and, of course, for myself. How strange that I had that profound thought about keeping him here; now I was being presented with the same option! I pointed at the couch for them to sit so I could hear more about what this doctor in a suit had to say. 

Sitting on the side of Scott’s bed, holding his hand, I turned to our guests on the couch. 

“I’m sure that you have heard, Mrs. Everleigh, about advances in computer science. What we are offering today is at no cost to you. That’s always a concern. But because we are in the early phases of this product, I would ask that you be a spokesperson for us, and of course Scott as well, because even though his body could not survive, his spirit would be alive in machine, as it were.”

“So would he be fully alive in the computer?” I asked skeptically.

“Actually, it works like this. Every neuron, every thought, every memory, even those he couldn’t readily access in life, things he has forgotten, will be there. He will have access to all those beautiful childhood memories once lost. The electrical system in his brain will be transferred to a hard drive and encrypted into our software. He would then interact with people as a Sentient AI, learning as a machine. New memories would encode differently, and could possibly grow and advance his personality, based on his interactions. I must tell you, though, that his decisions might look different than in the past. I feel like the two current Sentient AI subjects interacting online with people from their past, learning anything available to him, and can get a little out of hand.”

I shook my head, then said, “Can you tell me more about this, please? What does that mean about who he is? Will he lose who he is? Will I lose him in this process? Help me understand. I would give anything to keep him here with me, as he is. I’m concerned if he outgrows me, or us as a family, or…. How has it worked out for the other two people?”

“Well, Mrs. Everleigh, I feel like I should be completely open and honest with you. The first Sentient AI broke contact with his wife, contacting old girlfriends, even from his elementary school. He joined a Think Tank virtually and was voted president of MENSA within a few weeks. He wrote a proposal that was sent to the heads of seven countries and the UN President, proposing ways to increase the oil supply access and generate better economic conditions for many third world countries. When he was rejected by all of these heads of state, he attempted to take over the governments of these countries remotely. At the recommendation of Homeland Security, we had to take away the power supply.”

“What does that mean, take away the power supply?” asked Dr. Gruber. 

“Well, essentially, we unplugged the hard drive from access to electricity and the internet.”

“So where is he now,” Scott asked softly. I thought he had been asleep. 

“The ‘ashes’ of his hard drive were sent to his widow and children. We dismantled it rather than burn it into ashes, but the reference seems more appropriate. The problem was that by this time, the wife sent it back, marked Return to Sender. We continue to pay for therapy for her and the family.”

Becoming agitated, I said, “So that poor family had to grieve all over again?”

“Well, if you think about it like that, yes. But if you consider that they had three additional weeks with him, it doesn’t seem so bad.”

I breathed deeply, trying to prepare my words. “What about the other patient?”

“Well, Sentient AI II, or Alla, as we called her, wasn’t married and didn’t have children. She had a close relationship with her mother and lots of friends, so when she became brain dead from a car accident, her mother chose to have her encoded.”

“What was that outcome?” I sighed and braced myself.

“She lasted eight days. She had never had much luck with love in her real life, so she stole a photo online and engaged in many, many ‘relationships’ with men and women on dating apps. She became angry when she was unable to meet these people ‘irl,’ or in real life. If the person was rude or sexual,” and at this point, he wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Well, she went in and raided their bank accounts, putting all the money into a Caribbean account in her mom’s name. We still haven’t located the money yet. Then, she kind of, self-destructed. She melted down her own hard drive. I mean, it literally melted the plastic pieces, then the metals, and finally she even impacted the silicon chips. She was relentless in self destruction.”   

“So how in the world did you find Scott to be one of your guinea pigs?” Those damn tears continued to fall without my permission. But I couldn’t stop. “Is it possible that he will remain who he is after finding himself in the big, wide world web or whatever?”

Dr. Gruber spoke up. “Scott has been my patient for just a short amount of time, but I see the relationship he has built with you and your children. I have heard from his parents that he was always loyal, faithful, loving. I felt that if anyone could stay true to his roots, so to speak, it would be Scott. And I recognize that it’s a big ‘ask.’ Think of the potential for a good man in this position. Scott could truly benefit the American government, and now that Homeland Security is involved, they have you already under 100% protection. There are guards at your door, in the lobby, and the parking lot. If this is successful, you could become the most famous person in the world for making this decision.”

“Scott and I will talk about it tonight. Tomorrow, we transition to hospice, so I will let you know after we get settled.”

I hugged Dr. Gruber, shook hands with Dr. Sandler, and saw them to the door. In the hallway, several friends and family members were waiting and whispering about the guards. Dr. Sandler asked the guards to stand down, so they sat in the waiting room outside the door. Scott and I spent the day greeting guests, accepting condolences in advance, which was hard, and smiling through tears. Scott was visibly exhausted by these extra guests, so they began, one at a time, to lean over the bed, and kiss his cheek, tears spilling onto his broken body. 

When guests were gone, I walked around, straightening pillows and preparing for our nighttime routine and the transition tomorrow. When Scott almost died with the surgery, I had been teaching at an elementary school. It made the most sense to put everything in storage and stay with him in the hospital. There were so many times that he was unable to advocate for himself, and he had many midnight crises. With me being there, I was able to better understand the condition, the treatments, and his personal care. So I was with him 24/7 for the last year while he was in some hospital or other. And now we were transitioning to hospice and end of life. 

“Baby, come be with me,” Scott said quietly, lifting his hand towards me. That gesture took most of his energy, so I came quickly and curled up on the bed with him. Our routine each night was for me to crawl in bed with him, face to face, and whisper sweet nothings. Sometimes he would have me read the Bible to him; Psalms 23 was his favorite. His body was so sore, sensitive to any touch. I would lay as close as I could without causing pain. I could stroke his cheek gently, but he could seldom open his eyes for long to share the moment with me. He always tolerated my attempts at intimacy.

Scott was the first to speak. “It’s just like we talked about, putting my brain in a robot.”

“Yeah. My heart says, yes, forever! My brain says, would you be stuck there? Would it really be you? And honestly, I’m not sure I’m going to survive grief of your loss more than once. I’m not convinced I’ll make it through once. I want to go with you, love.” Tears flowed, and my shoulders began to shake with the beginning of silent sobs. I knew I couldn’t stop the primal response, but it upset Scott when I cried too much, it broke his heart to see me cry. So I was able to lay near him on the hospital bed and sob without sound or shaking his bed around.

“Baby, I don’t want to stay like that if it’s going to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”

I breathed slowly and deeply. “My sweet love, how can I do this here without you? What if you really were here with me? I could still have your personality and your charm and our love!! Oh, baby, what if…?”

“Listen, it couldn’t really be me in there. Think about this. The other two people were brought back, but did they bring everything? Did they bring their consciousness and awareness of others? It doesn’t seem like it. Their behavior was out of character for them. I think that might get lost.”

He grew silent, catching his breath. 

“Would I be who I am without my conscience? Without my morals? What is anyone capable of, with complete access to everything online? Do you believe that I am strong enough for that? Would you be strong enough for that?”

Shaking my head, I realized he was right. The last words he uttered that night in my arms was this, “Please don’t do it.”