text: Max, the shortened version of a name he hadn't been called in decades, became completely dependent on those around him for nearly every facet of his life. He could still manage to use the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. It had been a few years since he needed a wheelchair to move outside of the home, but that too had become an activity which required accompaniment. When his home care nurse was off-duty and his wife was drunk, he could do nothing but sit at home and flip through the channels. His hands still worked well enough to accomplish this task. The old man had been living with his disease for decades. This fatal saga had begun on a nondescript summer evening in Ohio. It was a hot July day, the sun had long since been overhead, and Max was making the familiar drive home down his newly paved road. The single bedroom home he shared with his wife Suzette sat on a serene two and a half acres in the Idaho country, barely within shouting distance of the closest neighbor. This was the way they liked it. Max was still at the farm he had worked on for eleven years, and was proud of the large spring crop. Max was a laboring man, and his rusted-tinted white Chevy had the dents to prove it. Since he was a child, Max had dreamt of running his own farm. His own *potato* farm. Potatoes are the backbone of America, Max told himself, and he wanted nothing more than to preside over fields that stretched further than the eye could see. As he came into adulthood he began to realize that most large farms are passed down family lines, and that poor young men usually work on someone else's farm. Adulthood had sobered his grand notions, and he soon found himself working his way up the ladder on a local, mid-sized russet potato farm. Though this was a compromise from his rather unrealistic childhood dreams, Max worked with vigor. He started as the lowest man on the totem pole; he spread shit, carried seed sacks, and made lunch for the small crew. He hoped beyond belief that he'd soon learn to drive the tractor. That day that Max arrived at his own small plot of land, he noticed that the yard was rather unkempt. Brown weeds were making themselves visible around the small blue house, and his wife's broken down station wagon had begun to look more like an Americana relic than a reliable form of transportation. This image didn't lessen the pride he felt at owning his own land. He knew that the labor he wasn't putting into his own property was being put into the soil on the farm. He had long since learned to drive the tractor, and had settled into a rather important role working under the owner. His boss had even mentioned the possibility of sending him down to Boise for agriculture classes. Max had figured that his boss's late night offer had likely sprung more from the few drinks he'd consumed than from any version of reality, but it still gave him hope. Suzette looked out the window and felt a warm pulse move through her body. The man she loved was home safe for another night, and would soon break the day's monotony with tales from the farm. She loved to hear Max tell stories. There was nothing she wanted more than to draw her large husband a hot bath, cook him a warm meal, and listen to his deep voice tell her of the day's exploits. The stories were usually the same; some hands had fought and he had to break it up, his boss got mad at him for something out of his control, or a piece of machinery had broken, but he was able to fix it and save the day's productivity. Max was an honest man, a man who dreamt big, and a man who knew that at the end of the day, his wife came first. The large man had felt weak on this particular hot, humid July day. Not even the hundred dollar bonus given to him for the season's exemplary yield seemed to put energy into his limbs. That day was a slow day, the first of many. \ It was winter now, and Idaho was in the grips of a rather serious snow storm. The brown weeds around the home were no longer visible, and in their place were large snowbanks covering the bottom half of the blue home. Max and Suzette had lit a fire in their fireplace, and were both reading the books they had been slowly working on for months. Suzette asked Max a question. The question was neither here nor there. An unimportant inquiry; she simply preferred to talk then to read. As Max was giving his response, Suzette noticed something strange. Something she had never noticed before: a slur in his voice. Max rarely drank alcohol, and Suzette was coming up on two years sober, so she knew it couldn't be drunkenness. It sounded like it though. Suzette asked Max another question to confirm what she was hearing, and again his words came out like he had just finished off a fifth of Jack. What concerned her more than the quality of his speech was the fact that he didn't seem to notice it. The ever supportive wife decided that it must be the stir-craziness of a long winter. She put it out of her mind and looked back down at her book. \ The snow began to melt and it was time for Max to go back to work. It was another season without his potato empire, but he knew that it may not be until old age when he'd sit on the porch of his own two-story farm home, watching his under-bosses command an army of hands. The dream of owning his own farm hadn't been lost, just sidelined by the realities of his situation. Max lived in America after all, and in this nation anything is possible with hard work, determination, and a dream. This Spring, unlike the dozens before it, he felt like he wasn't stronger than the year before. Every other season he worked as a potato farmer he could carry more, walk further, and work longer hours than the one before. But this spring, this terrible spring, he felt weak. In late May, as the crop was beginning to get big and Max was feeling proud, something happened. The day wasn't a scorcher like he knew to expect in July, but the cloudless blue sky was a weak match for the noontime sun. Max was walking beside a field to inspect an irrigation leak, when suddenly he became dizzy. He fell down, face-first, into the dirt. Max regained consciousness only when he noticed the footsteps of a laborer approaching him. He denied assistance, and stood up feeling lightheaded. On this day, Max decided to go home early. He knew that something in was wrong with his body. \ M.S. is a disease that slowly robs your body of life, but never quite finishes the job. M.S. is a disease that people have to endure until something else kills them. Heart disease, cancer, suicide; these are what finally end the life of someone suffering from M.S. Suzette was more than accommodating after learning the diagnosis. She read books about the disease, doing everything in her power to keep up Max's spirits as he too learned about the disease. Suzette had even taken a job working as a substitute teacher, knowing full well that Max's working days were numbered. In his final seasons growing the beloved russet potato, Max's boss had kindly allowed him to retain his position. He moved about the farm in a truck, avoiding labor that would be impossible with his impaired movement. Eventually he began to have trouble walking without a cane and his grip had become weak. It was decided that Max was not fit to work on the farm anymore. He knew his boss wasn't wrong, and the decision was mutual. It was two years since Max was able to work, and between the mortgage and the medical bills, there was never anything left for a night out or an extravagant meal. The costs were unbearable and the couple was forced to sell their small blue house which stood on two and a half acres of fertile Idaho soil. Before they sold their land, in an attempt to value the house as highly as possible, Suzette spent the day picking the brown weeds. Max was no longer a farmer, and he no longer owned a farm. Fortunately, their marriage didn't suffer. In fact, the disease brought them together in a strange way. First, they were together much more often, and the love they shared of hearing each other speak intensified. Unlike the days of their youth when Max would return home to a warm meal and tell stories of the farm's exploits, it was Suzette who was telling stories of the outside world. She would tell Max about the polite students who thanked her at the end of the day, and about the students who believed a day with a substitute teacher was a day of true anarchy. Another reason Max's condition caused their love to intensify was that every day he knew that Suzette chose to be with him. Suzette chose to get up and be the breadwinner when he was forced to lay in bed. As a young man, Max never knew why a beautiful woman would stay with a man after he was paralyzed in car accident, but now he knew. He knew that Suzette truly loved him, and he truly loved her. \ Both Suzette and Max were past middle age now. Max's condition had progressed to the point where he could walk about the house, but he needed to be pushed around in a wheelchair outside the home. Even with his walker he'd fallen in public places too many times for that to be a viable option. Suzette was becoming tired of substitute teaching. One particularly rough day, as she was driving home from a high school assignment, Suzette stopped by a grocery store. She walked to the back corner of the store and picked out two bottles of cheap red wine. She purchased them and sat in the parking lot, the radio quietly playing "Hotel California" by The Eagles, and broke 14 years of sobriety. Max could tell Suzette was drunk when she arrived home, leaned down, and gave him a wet, sweet smelling kiss on the lips. He didn't say anything. \ Max and Suzette moved into a trailer. She was past retirement age, but continued to work so that Max could have a nurse on the weekdays. He could still use the the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. Suzette liked that Max had someone to look after him during the daytime, and that she had someone to prepare a warm meal for her when she came home from work. Max had, on a few occasions, talked to Suzette about taking his own life. He told her that killing himself would save them both a lot of suffering. The disease would cause locked-in syndrome, rendering his body motionless, mouth and tongue included. Eventually a heart attack, a stroke, cancer, or some other ailment would strike the final blow. Suzette didn't know what to say when he brought up the topic of his death. She never responded to these comments, but knew that he was probably right. \ Max was alone one hot August afternoon. Suzette was at the store. It had been a few months since they had to let the nurse go. Max was laying in his bed in the back room of the trailer. A baseball game was playing on the T.V. but he couldn't hear the announcers over the sound of the rattling air conditioner. There was a gun in the nightstand. Max knew that as the days passed it would only become harder to put it in his mouth and that eventually, this too would become impossible. He knew that today would be the day. He struggled himself upright and sat against the cheap wooden headboard. He reached to the lower drawer on the nightstand next to him, and picked up his small german-made firearm. This was the last gun he owned from his rural youth, and he insisted on keeping it next to the bed when they slept. Max had lost all dexterity, and knew he would not be able to write a note. He sat with the gun in his hand and thought about how much he loved Suzette. He thought about how kind she was to stay with him into old age. He thought about the dreams he had of being a potato farmer in his youth and about the fields he would own that stretched into the horizon. He thought about how happy he was when he learned to drive the tractor, and how he told Suzette about it when he went home. He thought about the stories that she told him after a day at school. Max wished so badly that he could write a note to Suzette. He wished that he could say one final thank you, and tell Suzette that he loved her one last time. His crippled hands would not allow it. Max lifted the gun, unable to insert it into his mouth, and fired it into himself.