Bythefollowingspring,hewascompletinghissecond
circuitthrough thedistrict.Buttheweaknessinhisleft
arm had progressed. He couldn’t lift it above sixty
degrees.Hisrighthandwaslosingstrength,too.Andhe
wasstartingtohavetroublewalking.Upuntilthispoint,
he’dmanagedtopersistwithplayingtennisbutnow,to
his great dismay, he had to give it up.
“There’saheavinessin mylegs,”hesaid.“I’mafraid,
Atul.”
HeandmymothercametovisitinBoston.OnaSaturday
night,thethreeofussatinthelivingroom,mymother
next to him on a couch and me across from them. I
distinctlyrememberthefeelingthatacrisiswascreeping
up on us. He was becoming quadriplegic.
“Is it time for surgery?” I asked him.
“Idon’tknow,”hesaid.Itwastime,Irealized,forour
own hard conversation.
“I’m worried,” I said. I recalled the list of questions
Susan Block, the palliative medicine expert, had said
matteredmostandposedthemtomyfatheronebyone.I
asked him what his understanding was of what was
happening to him.
He understood what I understood. He was becoming
paralyzed, he said.
What were his fears if that should happen, I asked?
Hesaidhefearedthathewouldbecomeaburdenonmy
mother and that he wouldn’t be able to take care of
himselfanymore.Hecouldn’tfathomwhathislifewould