“It is not a question of dying earlier or later, but dying well or ill:
Seneca, Letters to Lucilius, Letter 70
She was 91.
She knew she wanted to live.
She was in the ICU.
We did not know what she had.
A week ago, she was “fine”.
A mass has grown so fast.
She was winded for a while, though.
“I thought it was my age, doc.”
Three days were enough for the “Emperor of Maladies”
to end the life of the Queen.
A lactate of 28!
No clues for sepsis I found.
We scan her whole body.
Around her bed, 4 or more friends,
all about the same age.
We talked to her for a while, the palliative doc and I.
For sure, she knew what she wanted.
She wanted to live a bit more.
A Second opinion, she wanted.
So fast, we decided to act.
We put the tubes in her throat,
we placed lines in her veins, and gave her meds.
But fast and short was her fight,
and her friends decided it was time
to let her go in peace.
Her white hair, soft hands,
held by her six dear friends
I talk to myself and thought:
“How lucky she was to have those girls.”
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