Scared of Dying
My aunt who is dying of ovarian cancer chose to enter hospice today after her third trip to the emergency room in the last two weeks. The hospital sent her home in an ambulance saying there was nothing more they can do. Today my father met her in her apartment in Brooklyn to move around her furniture to get it ready for the hospital bed, wheelchair, walker, oxygen tank, IV pole, and countless vials of morphine.
My father, the 67-year-old younger brother, did anything and everything with his small yet powerful body to help her through the transition. He carried her to the bathroom, he lifted her onto the bed, he sat with her, tenderly holding her hand, wiping her tears when she said, "I'm so scared," to him. Her own son and husband looked at her and tried to appease her, "don't be scared they said, we're here," but she locked eyes with my father and only wanted him. He's the muscle; he's the one who yells at the doctors to get things done. He's her eternal driver, the one who picked her up from chemo and the one who drove her to and from the E.R. He's the one who brought her to America 25 years ago to live with us.
More...
My father, the 67-year-old younger brother, did anything and everything with his small yet powerful body to help her through the transition. He carried her to the bathroom, he lifted her onto the bed, he sat with her, tenderly holding her hand, wiping her tears when she said, "I'm so scared," to him. Her own son and husband looked at her and tried to appease her, "don't be scared they said, we're here," but she locked eyes with my father and only wanted him. He's the muscle; he's the one who yells at the doctors to get things done. He's her eternal driver, the one who picked her up from chemo and the one who drove her to and from the E.R. He's the one who brought her to America 25 years ago to live with us.
More...