abag.OrImightnotbeabletorelievetheblockageat
all.
Shedidn’taskanymorequestionsafterthat.Iaskedher
whatshe’dunderstood.Shesaidsheunderstoodthatshe
wasn’toutoftrouble.Andwiththosewords,tearssprang
tohereyes.Hersontriedtocomfortherandsaythings
would be all right. She had faith in God, she said.
Afewmonthslater,Iaskedherwhethersheremembered
thatconversation.Shesaidshesuredid.Shedidn’tsleep
thatnightathome.Theimageofwearingabaginorder
to eat hovered in her mind. “I was horrified,” she said.
SherecognizedthatIwastryingtobegentle.“Butthat
doesn’t change the reality that you knew that another
blockage was in theoffing.” She’d always understood
thattheovariancancerwasaloomingdangerforher,but
she really hadn’t picturedhowuntil then.
Shewasgladwe’d spoken,nonetheless,and sowasI.
Becausethedayafterherdischargefromthehospital,she
startedvomitingagain.Theblockagewasback.Shewas
readmitted. We put the tube back in.
Withanightoffluidsandrest,thesymptomsonceagain
subsided without need for surgery. But this second
episode jolted her because we’d spoken about the
meaningofablockage,thatitwashertumorclosingin.
Shesawtheconnectionsbetweeneventsoftheprevious
couple of months, and we talked about the mounting
series of crises she’d experienced: the third round of
chemotherapyafterthepreviousonehadfailed,thebad
side effects, the pulmonary embolism with its terrible
shortnessofbreath,thebowelobstructionafterthat,and