centuriesofexperience,tradition,andlanguageaboutour
mortalityandcreatedanewdifficultyformankind:how
to die.
ONESPRINGFRIDAYmorning,Iwentonpatientrounds
withSarahCreed,anursewith thehospiceservicethat
myhospitalsystemoperated.Ididn’tknowmuchabout
hospice.Iknewthatitspecializedinproviding“comfort
care”fortheterminallyill,sometimesinspecialfacilities,
thoughnowadaysusuallyathome.Iknewthat,inorder
forapatientofminetobeeligible,Ihadtowriteanote
certifyingthatheorshehadalifeexpectancyoflessthan
sixmonths.Ialsoknewfewpatientswhohadchosenit,
exceptin theirverylastfewdays,becausetheyhad to
signaformindicatingthattheyunderstoodtheirdisease
wasterminaland that theyweregivingup onmedical
carethataimedtostopit.ThepictureIhadofhospice
wasofamorphinedrip.Itwasnotofthisbrown-haired
and blue-eyed former ICU nurse with a stethoscope,
knocking on Lee Cox’s door on a quiet morning in
Boston’s Mattapan neighborhood.
“Hi, Lee,” Creed said when she entered the house.
“Hi, Sarah,”Cox said.Shewasseventy-twoyears old.
She’d had several years of declining health due to
congestive heart failure from a heart attack and
pulmonary fibrosis,a progressive and irreversible lung
disease.Doctorstriedslowingthediseasewithsteroids,
buttheydidn’twork.Shehadcycledinandout ofthe
hospital, each time in worse shape. Ultimately, she
acceptedhospicecareandmovedinwithher niecefor
support.Shewasdependentonoxygenandunabletodo
themostordinarytasks.Justansweringthedoor,withher