I enter the tiny exam room where only a month ago, Dick first mentioned a new cough. Now the oxygen cord hangs from his nose and snakes down to the huge tank on the floor beside him. He wears his pink shorts and flowery polo shirt, even though he won’t be going to the golf course today.
He carries a book under his arm, just in case I am behind schedule, and his usually tanned skin hangs from his gaunt face with a deathly pallor. He pushes himself up from the chair and gets short of breath from the exertion. I reach for him as his balance wobbles, and he pulls me into a long, tight hug.
“I don’t have much energy these days,” he says. “Good thing I’ve gotten so forgetful; now I can read the books in my library all over again.” I laugh at his joke, as always. His wife laughs, too, like it’s the first time she’s ever heard this clever comment. They’ve been married for 57 years, and as she twirls the wedding ring on her finger, I sit down between them and begin the conversation I’ve dreaded.
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