My mother and I were sitting in a small outside garden of her assisted living facility before dinner yesterday. The weather was beautiful. Not too hot. Not too cool. A small breeze. The sounds of a bubbling faux stream behind us. Lots of flowers.
“Last Wednesday the doctor made her rounds. She had all my files on her lap. I asked her ‘Am I going to die?’”
“What kind of question is that?” I said with as much compassion as I could muster. “Of course you’re going to die. I’m going to die. You’re going to die. We all die.”
“I know that. That’s not what I meant. The doctor knew exactly what I meant.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘There’s nothing in your chart that says you will die anytime soon.’”
“And what did you say?”
“I told her, ‘That’s good.’”