My husband was 82 years old when he died. We had talked about death and both signed our living wills/advance directives, stating that we didn't want any extreme measures taken. We agreed that we both wanted to go peacefully if possible.

Unknown to me, he had been having chest pains. He saw his doctor, who did an EKG and told him he was fine. He came home so jubilant, I asked him what was going on. He said, "I thought I was going to die, but the doctor says I'm fine." I was happy for him, but I kidded him too. He was 82 years old, I said. How long did he want to live? He said, "Another two years at least."

That night he woke me. He was sweating and his skin was pale as he said, "Call the doctor. I feel like I'm dying." I called and was told to get him to the hospital immediately.

He was monitored closely and that night we all visited him. He was sitting up in bed, talking and laughing and telling everyone about his experience. He talked about coming home soon.

His doctor called me the following morning. He said that my husband had "crashed" during the night and was put on life support. When I got to the hospital, he was not conscious, and the prognosis was not good. I was told if he were moved to a care facility, he would have a 50-50 chance of surviving.

Remembering the living wills/advance directives we signed, I asked a few attending physicians what they would do. They said they would "let him go," and at the time I decided that was what I would do.

But our children protested. "We have to give Dad that chance... he wanted to live another two years, remember?" I told them I knew he never wanted to be kept alive like that, but they continued to say that if he had a chance, we should give it to him.

The doctors told me I had to make a quick decision; each moment counted. Since he was already on life support, I decided we would go with that, and we had him moved.

He was in intensive care. Tubes were inserted in his neck, oxygen was given, and he had a tube down his throat. Every day different specialists examined him. He remained unconscious.

After a while, the tube down his throat caused a problem, so it had to be removed and a tracheotomy performed. He had to be suctioned to keep the fluid from filling his lungs. The tubes in his neck area became inflamed, so they were moved to his other side. He was turned constantly to avoid bedsores.

Every day we were told he was improving in one area but failing in another. The resuscitation cart was always outside his door. The one time he regained consciousness, he started shouting that he wanted to get out of there. The doctors assured me that he didn't know what he was saying.

This went on for 45 days. Every day I stayed with him, and the family gave me what support they could.

Finally, I called a halt. I told his doctor he was not responding, and his doctor agreed that it was time. All the tubes were removed, and he was given a morphine drip to keep him comfortable. He died the next day.

It is too easy to be swayed by percentages. I blame myself for not standing strong and sticking to what I knew my husband wanted. It's easy now to look back and wish we'd done things differently, even though I know it was because of our love for him what we made the decision we did.

I'd hate to see it happen to anyone else.