I came across a letter I received in 1984 from my mother's cancer doctor. I had written him shortly after her death and demanded some answers about her care and treatment. In retrospect I can see that I was still trying to reconcile the facts of her death with the experience that we'd had - to make some sense of it all. The letter transported me back 25 years to probably the toughest experience of my life. One small event stands out. I feel like there is more meaning to it than I can see even now.
My mom liked and respected her doctors. It seemed like a small core of doctors and nurses were with her 24/7. They rarely slept or took time off. She felt like she was under the best care she could be, and I agree with that. It had become clear to all of us that she was dying. I recall this moment as a profound and deeply meaningful one. We were standing around her bed - her doctor, my aunt and some of my brothers. We had just had a conversation regarding another possible treatment so we were all deep in our own thoughts having exhausted the conversation. Mom's doctor looked tired and worn. Suddenly, she spoke to him quietly and said simply "Your glasses are dirty. Give them to me." He pulled them off and handed them to her. She quietly cleaned and polished them while we silently watched her provide this personal, almost intimate service for him. There was no sound except for the nearly imperceptible rustle of cloth on glass. She took her time and made the glasses shine. Then she handed them back to him. He murmured a small 'thank you' and left the room.
By this time, she had to depend on others for everything in her life. Personal hygiene and being fed nourishment. She could no longer get out of bed. It had all come to this point so quickly - from a tough, perky little woman to an invalid. She still managed to find one small thing she could do for someone else. It was an iconic moment for me. I doubt that I've been able to do it justice in the retelling.
