“I don’t know,” he said.
“Have you had trouble getting your breath?”
“He can breathe,” my mom said.
“We’regoingtoneedaproperwaytotakecareofhim,”I
said to her.
“Maybe they can give him chemo,” she said.
“No,”hesaidsharply.He’dmadeuphismind.Evenjust
thesideeffectsofthesteroidswereprovingdifficultfor
him to tolerate—sweats, anxiety, difficulties with
thinkingandmoodiness—andhe’drecognizednobenefit.
He didnot think afull-blown course ofchemotherapy
wasgoingtomakeanyradicalimprovement,andhedid
not want the side effects.
Ihelpedmy mothergethimto bedwhenitgot late.I
talkedwithheraboutthehelphewasgoingtoneed.He
wasgoing to neednursingcare, ahospital bed, anair
mattresstopreventbedsores,physicaltherapytoprevent
hismusclesfromstiffening.Shouldwelookatnursing
homes?
She was aghast. Absolutely not, she said. She’d had
friendsintheonesaroundtown,andthey’dappalledher.
She could not imagine putting him in any of them.
We’d cometo thesame forkin theroad I have seen
scoresofpatientscometo,thesameplaceI’dseenAlice
Hobsoncometo.Wewereupagainsttheunfixable.But
weweredesperatetobelievethatweweren’tupagainst
theunmanageable.Yetshortofcalling 911 thenexttime
trouble hit, and letting the logic and momentum of