To discontinue treatment is not a single decision, but a thousand tiny surrenders. It was the surrender of the morning nurse’s cheerful greeting, replaced by the hushed tones of palliative care. It was the surrender of the bland but life-sustaining meals, replaced by ice chips to wet a mouth too dry to speak. It was the surrender of hope, a flickering candle finally snuffed out, leaving behind only the cold, waxy scent of finality.
I was moved to a private suite at a hospice care facility overlooking a small, manicured garden. The room was designed for dying. The lighting was soft, the colors muted, the chair beside the bed large enough for a grieving loved one to sleep in. It remained empty.
My world had contracted to the space between the starched white sheets. The pain was a constant,
