The Veil

My latest palliative care consult lies in bed in front of me. He's a tall, dark-skinned Hispanic man—I almost want to call him a boy, because he's only 25 years old. He has the build of a basketball player who's been lying around for too long, muscles gone too soft for someone of his stature and age. He has no hair—chemo, of course. He wears a little gray fleece cap that covers his forehead so that I can barely see his eyes. The Ewing sarcoma has spread to his meninges and brain, and a third nerve palsy keeps one eye shut.

He peeps at me with his one eye. The eye scrunches up, his mouth turns down, and he cries, inconsolable. Like a little boy, I think. Like my 4-year-old son when he isn't getting what he wants and can't understand why.

I have been following this patient ever since his primary team told him the bad news—that there is no more chemo, that his last radiation dose has been reached, and that he and his family need to talk …