Cameron makes a choking sound and turns his head away, pressing a fist to his mouth.
I sit there, frozen.
Because the only thing I can hear is the wordhospice.
It hasn’t even been said yet.
But it’s hovering.
Dr. Patel leans forward slightly. “At this point, I want to focus on comfort and quality of life. We can connect you with our palliative care team—sometimes called comfort care. They specialize in managing symptoms, supporting the family, and helping you plan.”
He saysplanlike planning is something we can still do.
Like there’s still control to be found.
“And we should also begin discussing hospice,” he adds gently. “Hospice can be provided at home. It’s focused on comfort. Support. Peace.”
Peace.
The word makes me want to scream.
There is no peace in this.
There is only loss.
Pops clears his throat. “If we do nothing…what happens?”
Dr. Patel’s voice stays steady, but the pity in it is sharp. “The symptoms will progress,” he says. “There may be increasing confusion, changes in personality, difficulty with balance and speech. Eventually, there will be sleep. And then…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t have to.
My vision blurs.
I stare at the tissues on the desk.
I refuse to reach for them.
If I reach for them, I’ll break.
And if I break in front of Pops, he’ll try to comfort me.
He’ll spend his remaining time taking care ofme.
I can’t let that happen.
Pops nods again, slowly. “Okay,” he repeats, voice even.
Cameron finally looks at Pops, eyes glassy. “Dad…”
Pops turns his head slightly. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Don’t.”
Cameron swallows hard, jaw trembling.
Dr. Patel speaks again, gentler. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I had better news.”
I hear myself say, “When do we meet with comfort care?”
