For the last four years, I’ve been writing about hospice, grief, all things funereal. It began when my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer in 2006. Until 2009, I wrote only short fragments; the subject was too painful for sustained attention, yet too overwhelming to ignore. Now, I’m basting those small patches into something larger. Here’s one from the scrap bag:
Doing the Math
Mom’s oncologist must have been one of those students who mastered biology without ever mastering math. (I know; I was, too.) She considers this equation sound:
(four to six months life expectancy) + (gemcitabine-tarceva chemo-drip)
= (four days each week bedridden) + (two months’ longer lifespan).
Mom taught middle-school math; knows better.