“I’ve been looking at the statistics,” she says. “Okay, I’ve been looking at the statistics ever since you told me I had oligodendroglioma, but I’ve been looking at them again recently, and it’s not like I don’t have time to live a good life. If I had my way, I’d live to be a hundred and sixty, but I don’t think that’s really in the cards for me.”
“A hundred and sixty is probably a bit on the optimistic side,” I tell her with a smile. “But if this trial can extend your life by a year or even a few months, I think it’s worth it, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” she answers.
“Look,” I say, “this is totally up to you. If you don’t want to do this, we won’t do it. I just want to give you every opportunity that I possibly can, okay?”
“Okay,” she agrees.
She must be scared. I’ve never seen her go this long without making some sort of wildly inappropriate joke or observation.
“You’re supposed to be there in what, 20 minutes?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s just get you down there, and if it’s not something you want to follow through with, you can always quit. People drop out of clinical trials all the time.”
“It’s just,” she says, but doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “This is going to be a good thing. I promise.”
That may very well be the first time I’ve used the words “I promise” outside the phrase “We’re going to do everything that we can.”
I know she’s scared, but I really believe this is her best shot. I don’t just want her to live for another 10 or 12 years, I want her to have a full life.
“Okay,” she says. “There’s someone else out there; do you have to see them before we go?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “If you want to, you can wait out there with Yuri while I finish up and I’ll walk you down and introduce you to Dr. Willis. She’ll be the one in charge of the trial.”
“Okay,” Grace says, but hesitates. She quickly makes her way over to me and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before she turns and walks out of the office.
“Yuri?” I call out.
She comes to the door, saying, “You know, we do have an intercom.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Would you send in Mrs. Probst?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Yuri answers, and leaves the room again.
Mrs. Probst has stage four small cell lung cancer. She doesn’t have much time left, and there’s not a whole lot that I can do for her.
We’re past the point of treatment now and we both know it. Today’s appointment is to discuss how best to make her comfortable over the remaining week or so that she has left.
The hard part with Mrs. Probst is that she refuses to be admitted to the hospital, though by all rights she should have been in a bed here weeks ago.
Her son, Brian, wheels her into the office and guides her to the far side of my desk before taking a seat next to her.
“How are you doing, Brian?” I ask.
“I’m doing,” he says. “I think it’s time we get Mom to come to the hospital, though. I don’t know how much longer she’s got, and I don’t want her to have to spend her last days in so much pain.”
I turn to Renee. “How are you feeling?”
It’s a stupid question, but one that still needs asking.
Right now, Renee is in a great deal of pain. I’ve given her prescriptions for painkillers, but she refuses to take them. Every breath for her is a struggle, and it’s one that she never fully wins.
With a heavy wheeze, she lifts her oxygen mask enough to say, “I don’t want to be admitted. If I’m going to die, I want to die in the house my husband built.”