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Shattered All
I had known Mr. G. for about 4 years. Though quite demented, he exuded utter serenity and projected an aura of tranquility that would have been enviable except for its underlying cause. With his heft and large round face and placid countenance, were he to have donned a saffron robe, he could have passed easily for a Buddhist holy man. He always made me feel better about things, and I looked forward to seeing him on my nursing home rounds. However, when I saw him on my monthly visit looking unmistakably yellow, it was very disturbing. Still more disturbing were his numbers and scans, and I called his daughter to make some plans.
His daughter seemed to resent my calling and imposing on her and finally she asked me what I thought we should do. I pushed for a palliative course, emphasizing how well he would be cared for, but she wouldn't bite, and demanded that “more be done.” I tried to explain that “more” in this situation was what I was suggesting, but she would have none of it. I relented finally and suggested what I believed to be the least onerous step for everyone. “Let's have the gastroenterologist see him. It may be helpful.”
It was Friday afternoon. I paged the gastroenterology consultant. No response. No matter, I'll call on Monday, I thought. The unit clerk, trying to be helpful, called …
