Looking back more than three years, I would call them angels of mercy. At the time, as they sat at our dining room table, I probably thought of them more as messengers of death. The two women weren’t any sort of messengers, in fact. They had simply answered my wife’s request.
Earlier in the week, my wife had told her oncologist she wouldn’t be having a second round of chemotherapy to attack the cancer that had now metastasized to her lungs. The very likely complications, the horrid and debilitating side effects, weren’t worth the very slim chance of extending her life only a few months. Read more »