She grips my hand. Hard.
“Doctor, what does this mean?”
She is looking at the CT scan. Her furrowed brow demands honesty. In the ten years I have been her physician, she has shaken off cancer twice, first with radiation, then with surgery. Now, it returns.
“Doctor, my grandchildren are just now growing up.”
She is looking to the future. Despite being in excellent health deep into her seventies, she knows there are challenges ahead.
"Doctor, I want to go back home to visit my sister.”
She is looking at the present. Her far-distant sibling is not well. She has pledged to reunite before it is too late for each of them.
“Doctor, you have helped me before.”
She is looking to the past. Good fortune and technology have helped before. Maybe they will sustain her once again.
“Doctor, please.”
She is looking at me intently without smiling. She grips my hand. Hard.
Previous version published in April 2007.
