"I'm Going to Die."

This is what she told me.

And she said it with acceptance, almost in reflection.

I. Am. Going. To. Die.

Well, not tonight, but soon I guess. And I stood by her bedside, with lots of things to say. But I didn't need to say anything. She didn't need to hear me talk. She just just needed to think and say some things out loud. She knew. Those aches in her bones were due to the holes where bits of cancer are eating away. She thought maybe those aches were in her head. "Well maybe it is in my head," she points to her skull and grins, "I mean I thought the aches were things I imagined, but I guess the cancer's in my head too." She made a joke. I smiled, and thought it was funny. She tells me, "I have a dark humor." No wonder I like this woman.

She's known. She knew when her bone scan was done last week. Her biggest concern is not her dying. It's the pain and suffering her sister will endure when she dies. I wouldn't have asked before, but now I'm learning that my own discomfort in asking certain questions is really my issue. Why I ask.

Only in the past few years have these sisters become close. And now that close bond will be cut prematurely short. I think about how my own brothers were celebrating one of my nephews second birthday yesterday, and how through many twists and turns we've managed to become close, and I feel lucky.

"What do I do, I don't want chemo again." We talk about what's important to her. I'm not a specialist in palliative care. And I don't know much about cancer. And maybe that makes the conversation easier. It's important that she enjoys the quality of her remaining time, quantity is not the issue. We talk about pain control, no chemo, and other details, and I add, now it's ok to eat all the chocolate and ice-cream she wants. "Yeah," she grins, "you're absolutely right, chocolate and ice-cream."