“Mom, you’re in pain,” Brian says.
“That’s life, dear,” she says, and puts her oxygen mask back over her mouth and nose.
“It is her decision,” I tell Brian and then turn to Renee, “although there is a lot that we can do to make you more comfortable, even if you choose not to stay in the hospital.”
She shakes her head slowly.
She’s already resigned.
In my business, in her progressed stage of small cell, resignation isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The five-year survival rate is about two percent, and unfortunately, everyone sitting in this room right now knows that’s not going to be her.
Still, there’s no reason she should suffer any more than she has to.
“Would you consider a morphine drip?” I ask. “We have buttons that you can use to give yourself a dose, within limits, of course. That way, you can still be in control of-”
“I’m not...” she wheezes, lifting her oxygen mask slightly, “in control…of anything… anymore…”
“This can give you control over your pain,” I tell her. “There’s always going to be some discomfort, but you might be surprised how much a little relief can help.”
This 75-year-old woman is, without a doubt, the toughest person I’ve ever met in my life.
For an oncologist, that’s a hell of a statement.
The fact that she’s even sitting up in her power chair is a small miracle. She shouldn’t even be out of bed right now, and it’s astonishing that she’s capable of doing it. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I’ve never seen anything like it.
Renee just says it’s the only excuse for her to leave the house that anyone will accept anymore.
For her, as painful and exhausting as it must be, this is the closest thing to a vacation she’s likely to know from here on out.
“No,” she says, not bothering to lift her mask this time. “I’m tired…I’m weak…I’m ready…”
“You’ve got to talk to her,” Brian says. “There’s got to be something you can do.”
“There’s nothing more we can do at this point,” I tell him. “Other than manage her pain and try to make her as comfortable as possible…” I sigh. “There’s just nothing else for us to do.”
“Why isn’t she on the transplant list?” he shouts, startling me and his mother.
“Her cancer’s metastasized,” I tell him. “There’s nothing more we can do. I advocated getting her on the list, but the transplant committee denied it. I’m sorry.”
Brian turns to his mother, tears in his eyes. He’s young. He can’t be more than 35.
“You’ve got to do something,” he says.
“I’m ready,” Mrs. Probst breathes, and with that, her head droops forward.
I’m on the other side of the desk and crouched down next to Mrs. Probst in a second, feeling her neck for a pulse.
“What’s happening?” Brian asks.
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
I’m not feeling a pulse and she’s DNR. I try to find a pulse in her wrist, but there’s nothing.
“You’re sorry?” he shouts. “Why the hell are you sorry?”
I look at my watch. “Time of death, 11:47,” I pronounce.