The Man Afflicted

    Tom's health had been deteriorating for a while, but it was only within the last week that he really began to feel it.  He'd had pneumonia before, so he knew what it felt like, and this felt just like it.  It seemed that his congestion had increased exponentially, and that he felt "foggy-headed" most of the time; at points, he'd had chest pains, though they weren't as frequent as when he'd had his confirmed case of pneumonia.
    He felt exhausted the majority of the time, regardless of how much--or how little--sleep he seemed to get. He wanted to avoid going to the hospital, however, because he didn't see what good it would really do him. All they would do would be to hook him to an I.V., make sure he got meals and his meds, and give him breathing treatments, as well as monitor his vital signs. Most of this he could do at home, especially if he needed rest. They might give him something to aid his sleep, but he was already taking a sleeping pill, so he didn't see what good going there would be.
    Of course, if he went into the hospital, he wouldn't be allowed to smoke. One major bad habit he had was smoking and not administering his breathing treatments for his C.O.P.D., and he supposed that that was what might've contributed to his illness.  He wanted, badly, to be able to quit smoking, but the cravings got very intense whenever he tried to quit and felt a slave to them.
    His mother suggested that he go to the doctor, as others had, as well, but he was determined to let his illness run its course on its own, for better or for worse. If he got better, that would be good; if he got worse, he would just have to suffer through it.  Either he'd get better or die an early death, whichever God had in store for his future. His appointed day would come when it was supposed to, either way.
    Tom lived in an apartment complex, and his apartment was filled with mold in places. No matter how hard he'd tried to clean it, the mold was a mainstay; even bleach wasn't very effective, and it was possible that this might also be contributing to his illness.
    Tom's mother lived in the apartment complex, as well, in a different building than Tom did. She was very kind, a very nice woman with bad nerves who was constantly worrying. Tom would've been happy to ease her worries, as a lot of them were about him.  She was under a lot of stress, and he thought her to be the best mom in the world, as most children tend to think of their parents.
    The illness had come to include nausea, though unlike the case of confirmed pneumonia, he didn't have to vomit whenever he smoked. At least there was that much, he reckoned.
    Tom was a member of a poetry site, from which he'd met the most wonderful woman he'd ever encountered. She was sweet, had a great sense of humor, and was outrageously beautiful, to top it all off. Such women are a rarity, he was well aware, and suddenly he gave thought to how she might feel if he were to become too ill to function. Tom realized that he wouldn't want to hurt her, and that since she was very caring, perhaps he should take better care of himself.  The thing is, of course, he could be stubborn and pig-headed, and needed not to rely on himself or his own ideas without considering how anything he did might affect others.
    It wasn't long after all this that Tom's health got worse. He started having strokes, and the illness progressed. He became a vegetable, incapable of thought, having waited too long to quit smoking. His mother was devestated when she was given the option of leaving him on life support or pulling the plug.  Her stress increased, as did her sadness, as she had never thought she would've been put in such an awful position.
    Yet, she turned to the Lord, praying diligently for Him to heal her son.  The doctors thought his condition irreperable, but Tom's mother was determined not to believe their worldly logic. She fully believed that God could do the impossible, and would not let her son perish.
    Then, when holding her beloved son's hand, having just prayed to God and thanking Him for his healing, she felt his hand grasp hers.  It was an answered prayer, she realized, and immediately called the nurse on duty into the room.
    The staff examined him, determining that he would need a lot of intense therapy, but that he was no longer brain-dead, and that he would likely be at least partially paralyzed for the rest of his life. They commented that this wasn't a common occurrence, and could offer no logical explanation for what had taken place.
    Tom's recovery was very slow, but he regained partial control of his body again. And he successfully quit smoking. His hospitalization had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.



(Alternate ending--Faithless Version)

    Tom's mother was faced with the most difficult decision she would ever have to make, either pulling the plug on her beloved son, or allowing him to continue as he was, brain-dead.  Her nerves were completely shattered, and the weight she had already been losing picked up its pace.
    As she watched him laying there, motionless, a total vegetable, she couldn't bear for him to go on in such a state. The doctors had told her that he would never recover from such a state. Besides, the longer he was on life-support, the more money was being thrown away. Every hour another huge chunk of tax-payers' money was going to the hospital, and it just didn't seem right.
    So she made her choice, as difficult as it was, and they pulled the plug. They let him starve to death by removing the feeding tube that had been installed in him.
    It wasn't long before Tom's mother passed away. Her son's death only had ill effects on her, and her health declined rapidly.  She couldn't stand to know that she had told them to pull the plug.
    The others who knew him mourned his loss, his internet angel only deeply saddened at his loss. Those who knew his mother were equally remorseful and could only shake their heads, wipe their tears, and state how sad an ordeal it had been for them both.
    To this day, their tombstones are visited by the remorseful, who occasionally put wreaths and flowers on their graves.