itsalmostimmediatereturn.Shewasstartingtograspthat
thisiswhattheclosingphaseofamodernlifeoftenlooks
like—a mountingseriesof crisesfrom whichmedicine
can offer only brief and temporary rescue. She was
experiencingwhatIhavecometothinkofastheODTAA
syndrome: the syndrome of One Damn Thing After
Another.Itdoesnothaveatotallypredictablepath.The
pausesbetweencrisescanvary.Butafteracertainpoint,
the direction of travel becomes clear.
DouglassdidmakethattriptoFlorida.Sheputherfeetin
thesandandwalkedwith herhusbandandsawfriends
and atetheno-raw-fruits-or-vegetables dietI’dadvised
hertoeattominimizethechanceafibrousleafoflettuce
got jammed trying to make it through her intestine.
Toward the end of the time, she had a fright. She
developed bloating after a meal and returnedhome to
Massachusettsacoupledaysearly,worriedthatthebowel
obstructionwasback.But thesymptomssubsided, and
shemadeadecision.Shewasgoingtotakeabreakfrom
herchemotherapy,atleastfornow.Shedidn’twant to
planherlifearoundtheinfusionsofchemotherapyand
thenauseaandthepainfulrashesandthehoursoftheday
she’dspendinbedwithfatigue.Shewantedtobeawife/
mother/neighbor/friend again. She decided, like my
father,totakewhat timewouldgiveher,howeverlong
that might be.
ONLYNOWDIDIbegintorecognizehowunderstanding
thefinitudeofone’stimecouldbeagift.Aftermyfather
wasgivenhisdiagnosis,he’dinitiallycontinueddailylife
ashealwayshad—hisclinicalwork,hischarityprojects,
his thrice-weekly tennis games—but the sudden