"Can you tell my family? I can't do it."

I couldn't say no to your request, especially since I had just turned your world upside down with the diagnosis. "Is this going to kill me?" "It's not curable." I knew my response was avoidant but I didn't yet have the ability to look into someone's eyes and tell them they were going to die. It was not a skill I expected to hone. I wonder how our conversation would go if it were to transpire today; I have certainly refined my approach.

As per your request, I relayed the news to your son (who did not take the news as gracefully as you did). I understood his shock - after all, this was his mother who had been entirely healthy up to this point and was now confined to a hospital bed. You would not be able to overcome this  - aggressive as the disease so often is, it had already spread diffusely. He asked me the dreaded question of prognostication and I recall my hesitation in providing a timeline.  An experienced physician once told me that regardless of the prognosis given, there will always be disappointment - whether a patient exceeds or falls short of your prediction, you are almost always wrong and the family will be unhappy.

"Weeks...maybe months." I remember the look of incredulity on his face. That was not news he expected and it was almost like he was trying to negotiate with me to get more time. I told him we needed more information but the outlook wasn't good. I did not want to take away his hope. He clung to the notion that maybe more tests would yield a better prognosis.

It didn't...you declined progressively. I still remember your warmth and kindness. You were always pleasant; never wanted to "bother anyone" despite your illness stripping you of your autonomy. Your son was short with me and I understand now that it was not directed at me personally but rather his frustration at your illness. Day by day, I watched as you slowly slipped away and, despite our best efforts, we couldn't turn it around.

I didn't want to be right, Mrs. I. I prayed that I would be wrong and that things would improve. But I was correct in my estimation of weeks. I remember pronouncing your death. Confirming with my stethoscope the absence of a heartbeat; listening for breaths I knew were not there. You looked peaceful; the lines of exhaustion and illness had fallen away from your face. I hope that you continue to rest in peace and that your family is able to cope. Thank you for teaching me about honesty and the reality of mortality.