No Need For Words

How long would they have to sit in the examination room before the subject of death arose? A month earlier she acknowledged to her husband that she didn’t have the energy to “do this” anymore--she didn’t use the word fight. No more new treatments. No more grasping at straws to prolong her life. She was exhausted; it was OK to die. The doctor knew this—he had listened to her; saw it in her face; been with her from the very beginning of her illness. But he was still a doctor, and a doctor kept his patient alive, didn’t he? For twenty minutes, they talked about the Super Bowl and kids and politics. Then the conversation abruptly stopped and a long, awkward pause ensued. The only sounds were the rattling of the air conditioning vent, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, the rustling of the paper on the examination table. The tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall. The prior discussion just a diversion, a delay, a distraction. The doctor finally broke the stillness and got down to business, “I know our goal was for you to make it to your daughter’s high school graduation,” he paused, shook his head slightly from side to side, his face looking down to the floor, then returning to his patient’s face, his full head of hair maybe a bit too low on his forehead, (was it a wig?) “We tried everything we could; but I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

Eight years of chemotherapy, radiation, MRI’s, spinal taps, bone scans, brain scans, blood transfusions, surgeries, needles—lots of needles. Eight long years of nausea, diarrhea, pain so intense death would be a relief; hives, fatigue, exhaustion; and after all that, it came down to the words: “I don’t think we are going to make it.” It was like facing triple match point against an overpowering opponent even though you willed yourself to play the best match of your career. Your best just wasn’t good enough. But it wasn’t a shock, it wasn’t a mystery, the opponent was stronger, better; Federer vs. the tennis club pro. Everyone in the room knew it, and to pretend not to know it seemed fake—phony. There was a time for BS, a time for little white lies, a time to exaggerate, but this wasn’t the time. The doctor could have said, ‘Let’s try this, or try that,’ but he didn’t. He knew better. “We will set up hospice at your house; they will be in charge of your daily treatment, but I am still your primary doctor, so if you need anything—anything at all, please do not hesitate to call me.” The doctor then stood up, took his patient’s hand in his, wrapped his other hand around it, and held it for a long time—longer than one would think he was capable of. “It was a great pleasure getting to know you—both of you. You will always be in my heart.” He didn’t say, 'you will always be in my prayers'. He then shook the husband’s hand and slowly opened the door and left the room. Husband and wife sat silently in the room holding each others' hands. No need for words.