She was sleeping when I walked in her room, pushing the curtain aside with my elbow while cleaning my hands with Purell. She looked peaceful. Outside her window, night was falling. 1/8
"Mrs. M***," I lightly shook her left arm, which was folding across her chest. I almost never wake patients up in the hospital because their sleep is often more important than my visit. But this was my last chance. 2/8
She opened her eyes and blinked a few times. With my blue scrubs, white coat, and face mask, I was not easily recognizable. I told her my name. "I'm your oncologist," my smile was hidden by the mask. 3/8
"I'm so happy to see you," her eyes lit up. "How bad is it?" she didn't waste time.
I told her the cancer had spread to multiple lymph nodes, her liver, and both lungs. We had a long talk. I recommended hospice. 4/8
I told her the cancer had spread to multiple lymph nodes, her liver, and both lungs. We had a long talk. I recommended hospice. 4/8
"I have lived a long, happy life," she concluded. Her 92-year-old mind was as sharp as the first time I met her three years ago. 5/8
"I wonder if they can cremate me," she looked at the window. The trees were blowing in the dark rain. “They” meant the nursing facility. Her children wouldn't fly in because of the lockdown. 6/8
I said goodbye.
"You go live a good life," she took my hand. "And stay safe," my dying patient said. She smiled. I struggled not to cry. 7/8
"You go live a good life," she took my hand. "And stay safe," my dying patient said. She smiled. I struggled not to cry. 7/8
Steady drops of rain hit the windshield as I drove home on the eerily empty freeway. I wished the rain would hit harder, washing away all the grime on my car, all the dirt on the road, and all the sadness in this fragile world. 8/8
