She’dmadeinstantlyclearthatwhatshecaredaboutwas
himandhowhewasdoing,notabouthisdiseaseorhis
diagnosis.Andshe’dletusknowthat,surroundedbya
bunchofdoctorsornot,sheknewexactlywhatshewas
doing.
Shelookedtobearoundfifty,withshort,croppedgray
hair,a white cottonsweater with an embroideredrose
acrossthefront,andastethoscopestickingoutofherbag.
Shehadalocal,countryaccent.Andwithit,shegotright
to the point.
“Theysentmeoutwithhospicepapers,”shesaidtomy
father. “What do you think about that?”
Myfatherdidn’tsayanythingforamoment.Thenurse
waited. She knew how to be silent.
“Ithinkitmaybebest,”hesaid,“becauseIdon’twant
chemo.”
“What kinds of problems are you having?”
“Nausea,” he said. “Pain control. Grogginess. The
medicinemakesmetoosleepy.I’vetriedTylenol with
codeine. I’ve tried Toradol pills. Now I’m on ketamine.”
Hewenton.“Iwokeupthismorningand itwasabig
change.Icouldn’tstandup.Icouldn’tpushthepillowup
inthebed. Icouldn’thandleatoothbrush tobrushmy
teeth.Icouldn’tpullmypantsorsockson.Mytorsois
becoming weak. It’s getting hard to sit up.”
“Hospiceisaboutpalliativecare,”shesaid,aboutgiving
caretohelpmanagethesedifficulties.Shewentthrough
theservices thatMedicare would coverfor my father.