They tell you it is simple.
A form.
Two pages.
One line to sign.
Black ink.
Any pen color is fine.
As long as you write your name.
Your parent lies in the next room.
Still.
Machines doing the breathing.
Monitors doing the counting.
Lights blinking like tired stars.
The doctor speaks gently.
“Brain activity is minimal.”
“Recovery is unlikely.”
“We can continue life support.”
“We can also.. withdraw.”
Withdraw.
Such a small word for something that feels like falling.
They show you charts, scans, and percentages.
Ten percent.
Five.
Less than one.
Numbers meant to help you decide.
They don’t.
Because you remember other numbers.
Your age when they first carried you.
The nights they stayed awake.
The meals they skipped.
No chart shows that.
No graph measures that.
Someone asks,
“Do you know what your parent would want?”
You say, “I think so.”
You are lying.
Not to them.
To yourself.
They were supposed to grow old.
Repeat stories.
Laugh with your child.
Ask you to drive slower.
Not this.
Not tubes.
Not catheters.
Not sedation.
Not sedation.
Then comes the other conversation.
Not with doctors.
With screens.
With statements.
With red numbers.
Daily rate.
Room charge.
Machine fee.
Extended care.
Every sunrise adds a line.
Every night erases a plan.
You and your sibling check your bank apps in the hallway.
Thinner.
Almost gone.
Money for tuition.
For braces.
For your spouse’s overdue rest.
For emergencies.
For “just in case.”
Now converted into borrowed time.
Your child asks,
“Can we still go on that birthday trip?”
“Next time,” you say.
You hope there is one.
Your spouse asks,
“Are we okay?”
“I think so,” you say.
You are lying again.
You learn new prayers:
Loan.
Advance.
Restructure.
Interest.
If you sign,
the machines will stop.
The bills will stop.
The counting will stop.
You will go home
to silence
and balance.
And guilt.
You will wonder if you traded love for survival.
If you were brave
or cheap.
or cheap.
If you don’t sign, they will continue.
So will the charges.
Days become statements.
Weeks become threats.
You will sell tomorrows
to preserve yesterdays.
Your children will inherit anxiety.
Your spouse will inherit exhaustion.
You will inherit blame.
People will say,
“You are such a good child.”
They will never see
the spreadsheets at 3 a.m.
The eye bags from second jobs at night,
in between your 8 to 5 and nights by their bed.
The credit cards you hide.
The conversations you postpone.
If you let go, you chose self-preservation.
If you hold on, you chose guilt.
That is what they will say.
They are wrong.
You chose loss.
Either way.
You stare at the pen.
It looks harmless.
It is not.
It weighs as much
as every sacrifice before you.
And every consequence after.
Once you write your name,
you are choosing
who gets protected.
And who gets broken.
No family should have to decide between dignity and debt.
The financial cost is visible.
The mental cost is not.
Maybe it is time we talk about that.