She wipes away tears.

She wipes away tears.

It's tough, this conversation. The radiologist called us this morning and said, there's a mass in the colon. 9 inches from the rectum. Potentially cancer. But we don't know yet. Pathology will tell us soon. We said thanks, hung up, and then went to go tell the daughter.

The facts are easy. This is what it is. This is what we know. These are your options. The delivery is harder. What do you want to do? And when she turns to her father, who is watching and listening to us with that same smile, and asks him what he wants to do. Do you understand?
He responds in half formed thoughts. I feel fine right now, I think. There is something in me? I feel alright right now, alright alright, cancer is bad.
She turns to us and says, well, that's your answer.

And my resident pauses for a second and tells the daughter as gently as possible, the way he is right now, you will have to make the decision.

And she moves her hands helplessly and tries to find the words. And she tells us this.
She has been taking care of this gentle old man. Except she works two jobs and is gone for most of the day. And most of the night. And her sisters can't won't help. But she told us to put him as DNR/DNI -i am ready to go the sky-, and her sisters called her on the phone to seriously question her intentions of that order. Do not resuscitate. Do not intubate. But she looks at us helplessly. I can't take care of him myself, she says incredibly quietly, speaking down into her hands.
And then she tears up and cries. And the whole time, her father is sitting besides her smiling a little.

She wipes away tears
And he touches her hand.

And we are all quiet for a moment.

----