upthemedicinewhenshecamehomefromwork.She
also called the nebulizer supplier for same-day
emergency service.
She then chatted with Cox in the kitchen for a few
minutes. Cox’sspirits werelow. Creedtook her hand.
Everything was going to be all right, she said. She
reminded her about the good days she’d had—the
previousweekend,forexample,whenshe’dbeenableto
gooutwithherportableoxygencylindertoshopwithher
niece and get her hair colored.
IaskedCoxaboutherearlierlife.Shehadmaderadiosin
a Boston factory. She and her husband had had two
children and several grandchildren.
WhenIaskedherwhyshehadchosenhospicecare,she
lookeddowncast.“Thelungdoctorandheartdoctorsaid
theycouldn’thelpmeanymore,”shesaid.Creedglaredat
me. My questions had made Cox sad again.
Shetoldastoryofthetrialsofagingoverlainwiththe
trialsofhavinganillnessthatsheknewwouldsomeday
claimher.“It’sgoodtohavemynieceandherhusband
helpingtowatchmeeveryday,”shesaid.“Butit’snot
myhome.IfeellikeI’mintheway.”Multigenerational
living fell short of its nostalgic image, again.
Creedgaveher ahugandone lastreminder beforewe
left.“Whatdoyoudoifyouhavechestpainthatdoesn’t
go away?” she asked.
“Takeanitro,”Coxsaid,referringtothenitroglycerinpill
that she can slip under her tongue.
“And?”