I paused outside her closed door to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Entering her room, I expected to find multiple family members surrounding her, as there had been on most days. Instead, she was alone.
As I shut the door behind me, the noises of a full ward faded, giving way to the gentle sounds of a humidifier and an elderly woman’s struggled breaths. Her eyes were closed, and an oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth. I glanced at the windowsill, where multiple cards were displayed — a child’s drawing peeking out of one. Flowers were on the bedside table, with a family photo nearby. This was a well-loved woman.
I had witnessed her decline with each hospital visit, and it was obvious that the end was approaching. She knew it, too, and had requested to speak with me that day. When I sat gently on the bed, her eyes opened. Recognizing me, her eyes revealed a faint smile underneath her mask. I reached for her hand and leaned forward so we might hear each other.
Her hand was frail in mine, yet her grip was tight as I began to share with her the painful truth: she was dying. Her disease had ravaged her lungs to the point that it was time to make some critical decisions.
She asked a series of straightforward and thoughtful questions, each one requiring her to gasp for air. […]
— Read More: stream.org
