“Was it hard for you to listen to?” she asks. “Your mom talking about her death?”
I can still remember the doctor’s office—not an appointment room, but a true office, lined with books and pictures of his family. I just don’t want to be in pain, Mom had said, her voice cracking as my father put his face in his hands. That’s all.
“Yes,” I answer. “It was hard. But worthwhile. And I promise I didn’t mean to derail the conversation into sad cancer talk, because this is about us and much more fun things.”
“So which one of us is the doctor and which one of us is the patient?”
I start cleaning off my counter as I talk. “I think we’re each both. Both things at once. We need to figure out what’s important to each of us, what our priorities are. And also we need to talk about boundarie
