Tonight, Job and I were watching our comedy shows and I can tell he is uneasy. I take the clicker and shut the TV off.

"What is it, Job?" I don’t really have to ask. I can tell he wants to answer me, but he can’t. It’s like the words are stuck in his throat. We are quiet for a while, too long, and I can’t take it.

"Is it time?" I ask him. He looks at me and gently nods.

We sit quietly like this, he on his chair, me on mine. I can hear the neighbors laughing through the open window. The air is still and feels odd. Final. "When?" I ask softly. My words, too, are hard to push forth. My throat feels like there’s a great big lump stuck in it. I tell myself to not get upset, that would only make this harder. I knew this was coming, I can’t be upset. This is what we talked about. This is no surprise. I am thinking a thousand thoughts at once.

"Tonight." He answers. His voice sounds so far away.

"How."

"With the gun." He sounds like someone else. He even looks like someone else. The small lamp casts a shadow on his face and for a second I think this is a TV show that I am watching, and I want to change the channel. My heart is beginning to pound in my chest. I begin to cry. I take a deep breath.

"Okay." And I mean it.

We cut plastic garbage bags and lay them under the sheets. We take our insurance papers and put them on the kitchen table. The keys to the safety deposit boxes, the will. He’s being so reasonable, so logical. I feel proud of him, and grateful for his sound mind. All I can think about is whether I should eat something and what will the neighbors think when they hear the shots and I’m gonna miss my soap operas tomorrow and stupid crap like that. Job comes up with an idea about picking out our outfits for the funeral. He lays his grey suit and navy pinstripe tie across the kitchen table. I choose my yellow dress with the little red flowers. He always told me I looked like springtime in that dress. We want things to be as simple for the kids as possible. We know they’ll be so upset with us. We hadn’t even told them about the cancer. My Job looks so sweet as he moves from room to room nervously, the same way he’d move from room to room when we’d be ready to leave for vacation with the kids, checking every window, every appliance. Worried that there might be one thing, one small detail that he would forget. We stay pretty quiet, knowing that words would only complicate this. We do talk about leaving a note, for the kids. We decide against it. It would be too morbid, we think. They’d never understand, so we shouldn’t try to explain.

He tells me to go to the bathroom. He says that sometimes people crap on themselves when they die and he thought I’d be embarrassed. I try to go, but nothing comes. He goes pee and tells me he saw blood in his urine. Somehow, we both feel justified by that. Confirmation, perhaps? Yes, yes, God is saying, go ahead. Neither one of us really believes that, but we try to convince ourselves that when we get to the pearly gates, we can just have an honest-to-goodness heart to heart with God, and we’re just sure, being the loving God he is, he’ll let us in. Job tells me for sure I’ll get in, because I’m not killing myself. I’m being killed. The word hangs in the air, oddly and I hear its echo. Killed. Killed. Is it a terrible thing that we’re doing? It felt like the right thing, until now, until this moment. I pray quietly for God’s mercy. And for mercy on my Job.