Surely, Dec. 4, the original suicide date, had been too soon. His voice was still strong then; the phone was ringing at least four times an hour; he was giving several interviews a day. Life was bubbling around him.
      It grew quieter as the holiday season and darkening winter approached. He bought a giant wall clock -- more than two feet in diameter -- and had Senna hang it directly in front of his armchair, where the bookcase had been. He kept the TV on all the time -- loud. "I never watch TV," he remarked, as if "I" no longer applied to the paralyzed man in the blue recliner.
      But there was always a better day to die. Earley had scheduled a "going-away party" for Dec. 14. More than 50 people came to say good-bye, in an odd funeral before death, which turned out to be an ordinary party, with a catered meal and very few tears.
      Then he wanted to live until Christmas -- his 48th birthday. Although he was having trouble breathing and could barely operate his cigarette lighter, he could still talk.
      On Christmas Eve, found grimly alone in his apartment, Earley said he would kill himself on Friday, Dec. 27. But he was in a bad mood when he said that; he said his girlfriend had left him yet again.
      She came back, as usual, and on the designated Friday he said, No, not today -- a week from today.
      Why?
      Earley still had work to do. The Washington Post was coming to interview him that Monday, Dec. 30.
      By this time, speech was so difficult that Earley was parsimonious with words, answering mainly with gestures and monosyllables. But with the Post reporter as an audience, he declaimed for two hours in long, complex sentences; he joked with her, he charmed her. She left with a full notebook, stroking his arm as she thanked him.
      Is there ever a good day to die?
      He survived into the new year, and his disease progressed to the point at which suicide appeared impossible. Earley could barely hold a cigarette to his mouth, never mind manipulate a syringe.
      In any case, by January suicide was not merely impossible; it was superfluous. Death did not need a needle's invitation. Death was already hovering about the apartment, drumming its fingers on the back of the blue recliner.

unday, January 5

      "This is not the fun part," says Bob Zuck, his arm tight around his friend Nöel's shoulders. It's not just a fraternal gesture; Earley wants to sit upright and cannot do so without someone holding him.
      Sitting somehow lessens the sensation of suffocation that's overcoming him, filling his eyes with panic. Zuck and Earley are side by side on his bed, which just this morning has been moved into the living room.
      Earley long resisted this idea, saying he didn't want to be "bedridden." It was important to be able to travel every morning from his bedroom into his living room, like a regular person. Now his house is unmistakably a sick man's domain.
      Rita Senna, his nursing assistant, and Steven Ames, his best friend, are here this Sunday evening; his girlfriend left some hours ago. In the past couple of days, Earley has been declining swiftly. Since Friday, he has been communicating chiefly by pointing to letters and words printed on cardboard; a small box attached to a thin tube inserted in the skin of his upper arm has been providing a continuous, though minuscule, dose of morphine, to treat his shortness of breath.
      But breath remains short, air remains scarce.
      Earley asks for the suction machine, a device that pulls phlegm from his upper throat through a tube. He tries to put the tube down this throat. With wet noises it sucks away, to no avail. His lungs feel full, blocked -- he can't draw in enough air.
      He asks someone to call 911.
      No need to give the address. The men at Lincoln Rescue know Nöel Earley; they've been by at least a dozen times, sometimes to help with such simple tasks as adjusting his position in bed or removing his sweater.
      Five EMTs arrive within minutes, and Earley asks for deep suction -- a tube inserted in his lungs to suck out the fluid. "I can't intubate you," says Pete Dyer. "My license doesn't allow it. You're going to gag on this unless you're unconscious." Earley, an EMT himself, surely knows this.
      Dyer offers to take him to the hospital, but Earley refuses.
      "Nöel, I wish I could help you," Dyer says. "I really do."
      "Nöel," Rita Senna pleads, "let them take you to the hospital."
      He refuses. After the EMTs leave, Earley asks to be put in his armchair. Trying to take the weight off his sore, bony posterior, he leans back. Instantly, his mouth opens, a primordial terror flashes in his eyes: he makes a rasping sound and gestures frantically for the suction machine.
      Senna puts one arm around his shoulder, and with her hand on his forehead holds his head up as he puts the suction tube in his mouth. He tries to get it down his throat. He gags. He gasps. He tries again. He cannot get enough air.
      No one speaks. Senna and Ames take turns holding his shoulders. For an hour, Earley struggles, his eyes hectic, the suction tube gurgling, its motor grinding. Ames goes into the kitchen to call Hospice Care. Sitting in an extra wheelchair, palm on forehead, Ames says into the phone, "This is exactly what he wanted to avoid." Hospice recommends giving him more Ativan, an anti-anxiety drug. It doesn't work: he cannot get enough air. He suctions, he gags, he gasps. He cannot get enough air, he cannot, he cannot.
      "Nöel, do you want to go to the hospital?"
      He nods. Pointing to the cardboard, he starts to spell, "I might die. . . ."
      But there is always a better day to die.

he hospital workers ease Earley's congestion with a steam treatment, and he insists on going home that night. The next morning, he receives a visit from Cathy Bedard, his hospice nurse since August, and Bedard's supervisor, Ellen Smith.
      It's time to discuss the future, which Bedard is now measuring in days. Bedard tells Earley that if he stops taking food and water through his stomach tube, he can die easily within a few days. Earley says he wants food and water.
      "So is your plan now to stay alive as long as you can?" Bedard asks him.
      "If you help," Earley spells on the cardboard.
      "So you want now to stay alive as long as possible if we keep you comfortable," she says.
      "Very comfortable," Earley spells.
      To do that, Bedard explains, Earley needs more medication, to ease the anxiety and "air hunger" that accompany his shortness of breath. But medication will come at the price of awareness. He cannot be fully awake and comfortable, too.
      "It's the rock and the hard place," says Smith.
      "It depends on how much you want to be aware of all this," Bedard says, adding gently, "This is not going to get better, Nöel."
      The three agree to walk a tightrope, increasing the sedation, but not so much that Earley is unconscious or unable to communicate.
      Later, Earley asks Bedard how long he would live if he went on a ventilator.

onday, January 6

      Have you decided not to kill yourself?
      Shakes his head.
      When will you do it?
      Shrugs.
      How will you do it?
      "Needle."
      Where?
      "A vein. . . . I may need help."
      Do you have someone to help you?
      Nods.
      Do you think you waited too long?
      Shakes his head.
      Why did you wait this long?
      "My work."

ow life-sustaining was this campaign for death!

      On Jan. 8, the U.S. Supreme Court heard arguments on assisted suicide. The proceedings could not be broadcast, but Earley surely knew that this milestone would yet again bring TV cameras to his apartment.
      Earley had not spoken in several days. But on that Wednesday, when the TV reporters pointed cameras at his face, his speech returned -- strained but understandable. Saying that he still intended to kill himself, Earley gave four interviews, the last to ABC's Ted Koppel, who broadcast it that night on Nightline. About six million people saw it.
      His campaign had reached its pinnacle. Death drummed its fingers.
      But Earley wasn't done yet. He continued to accept food and water. Using the cardboard, he asked his girlfriend, "OK to die?"
      "You're asking me if it's okay to die?" she said, her voice growing soft. "It's whatever you want. I told you, I'm ready to let go."
      "Vent," he spelled, referring to the ventilator. "Your decision."
      "It's my decision? No, it's your decision. You need to tell me what you want."
      Asked to explain his feelings that day -- a few days before he died -- Earley spelled out these words:
      "I am guttering like a candle. In moments I want to die. In moments I want to heal. Guttering."
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