The view from the back window of the Adirondack camp belonging to Mike and Mel Hirsch. The cabin is near Lake Placid, New York. (Mathilde Hirsch)

I lie in my hospital bed and stare out the back window of our cabin.

It’s 3:28 a.m. The outdoors are as black as Satan’s soul.

It’s 4:22 a.m. First light reveals the ghostly shape of trees. The view slowly transforms, gaining detail and substance. It’s like watching a Polaroid photo develop before your eyes.

Suddenly, it seems like a four-masted schooner is floating through a misty sea.

It’s 4:44 a.m. The scene is fully formed, but only in black and white. Four trees have grown in a straight line. Two severe-looking ash trees are followed by soft hemlocks, at the base of Marble Mountain.

It’s 5:14 a.m. Colors emerge slowly, starting with a simple and dull green palette, like in a child’s paint set.

Then the trees reveal their true colors, showing dozens of greens, ranging from the jade of the leaves on a striped maple sapling to the deep shade of a bullfrog in the shadow of an evergreen.

The smaller trees sway. Leaves dance with the breeze.

A hermit thrush, the morning and evening soundtrack to our cabin, Birdsong, plays its lovely piccolo piece. The scent of balsam wafts through the screen.

I drift back to sleep. I’m startled awake at 7:37 a.m. Our Chesapeake Bay retriever has leapt onto my wife, Mel’s, bed and is barking ferociously at something just outside of my view. I lean over to catch a glimpse of the circus clown of the woods — a porcupine.

The porky fellow meanders out on a thin limb, but his weight pulls him slowly down. He reaches for the trunk and inches his way higher.

You see, this is no ordinary window. Because the back of our camp drops steeply down a hill, the view here is like that of a treehouse. You are looking at birds and animals 20 feet off the ground.

It offers no lake views or spectacular vistas. Instead, it provides an intimate look at a section of forest land from the perspective of a red-eyed vireo.

On days where I’m not up to getting out of bed, like this one, I watch the day pass with a calm that only nature can offer. The sunlight yellows and reaches farther into the branches, highlighting the shape of ash, oak and maple leaves.

As morning turns to afternoon, a new phase begins. The cycle from this morning plays in reverse, with the light slowly fading and the shades of green becoming increasingly subtler. This gives me hours to contemplate what it means to spend my last days under the care of hospice. For decades, I have believed in the philosophy of hospice — to die as natural and dignified a death as possible. I never saw the point of extending life simply because it is medically feasible.

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Seeing my body deteriorate these last three years due to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis has confirmed my beliefs. My goal has been to live as fully as possible with ALS, and when the time comes, like it’s coming now, to accept the end of this journey without unnecessary pain and hardship for me and my family.

My Mel has been like Marble Mountain during all of this. Ever-present by my side, a great comfort at all times, and especially beautiful during the golden hour, that time of soft, rich light around sunrise and sunset.

Mel and Mike Hirsch in their Lower Macungie Township home. Mike is the opinion editor at The Morning Call. (Mikaelyn Austin / Contributed photo)

I have signed paperwork we keep on the refrigerator that spells out no breathing machine, no feeding tube and no CPR. I do not want to die in a hospital room where the windows look out over a parking lot. Here, at Birdsong, I feel enveloped in love and support. It’s like being wrapped snugly in a warm and familiar blanket.

One day recently, I cried when I saw my two daughters, one on either side, using a Hoyer lift to transfer me to my bed. I was literally uplifted by both of my wonderful daughters at a time when I was frail and vulnerable.

I experience unexpected moments of tenderness from other members of my family support team. My son-in-law, who truly is like a son to me, Hoyer-lifts me to my wheelchair, lovingly steers me in my chair and takes me out on small adventures. My brother and I have bonded in ways we have not since we shared the same bedroom in childhood. Sometimes, he gently places his hand on my shoulder when he doesn’t know any other way to help. My younger daughter’s partner displays kindness in all the various ways she helps, whether giving me my medicine through spoonfuls of chocolate pudding or lifting me forward in a morning hug, so we can straighten my shirt.

I’m losing my appetite and struggling to drink without choking. Most days, I need to take morphine when my breathing becomes shallow and forced. We’ve had a couple of scary incidents in which my lips turned blue and I felt as though I couldn’t take a breath. My voice is as raspy as a movie gangster’s.

It’s 7:45 p.m. The leaves have been sucked dry of their colors. Slowly, the leaves and pine needles lose their definition and the view is like an impressionistic painting, all mood and little substance.

By 8:35 p.m. the greens have abandoned me and the woods, and I am left with black and white again. The ghost ship arrives from the fog to carry me away. I drift back to sleep.

It’s 10:01 p.m. The view is as dark as the inside of an urn. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for the last time.

Mike Hirsch, of Lower Macungie Township, is the director of Content/Opinion and Community Engagement for The Morning Call. He previously worked as Business and Features editor at the paper. He can be reached at mike.hirsch@mcall.com.