Condolances

I wish to express my condolances to Uncle's family. I'm glad I had the opportunity to see Uncle and his family last Sunday. With his long battle coming to an end, Uncle was at peace. He was happy to have his family around him. In a quiet voice he sang again and again:

"I've got a mansion over the hilltop,
In that bright land where we'll never grow old,
And some day yonder we will never more wander,
But walk on streets of purest gold."

I hope he finds what he's looking for.

With love and condolances,
William Rubin

Uncle

My uncle was sitting in a chair holding a garbage bucket. The bit of hair he had was dishevelled. A large bruise stood out on his pale skin. His right leg was badly swollen; with no narrowing at the ankle or knee, it looked like a cylinder. He was nodding in and out of consciousness.

His family sat around his bed. His wife and daughters looked as if they had been crying.

As I walked into the room everyone greeted me. I sat and they began to explain the severity of the situation. My uncle was in renal failure. He had been flown into this tertiary hospital to have an emergency operation, but his platelet level was too low to risk the surgery. Doctors didn't expect him to make it through the night.

The minister, who had been sitting quietly with the family, began to pray. I bowed my head. " 'In my Father's house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you so. I go to prepare a place for you.' "

Sitting in his chair, Uncle began to sing. "I've got a mansion over the hilltop, In that bright land where we'll never grow old, And some day yonder we will never more wander, But walk on streets of purest gold."

I sat with the family, not knowing what to say. When it was finally time to leave, I told Uncle it was good seeing him and that I would see him again soon. He drifted off into unconsciousness. I said my goodbyes to the family and left, wondering if that would be the last time I saw him.

Bad news

They sat in the waiting room, not knowing what to expect. It had been two weeks since he had discovered an egg-sized lump in his groin. He called his family doctor and made an appointment. Upon seeing the physician, the mass did a disappearing act. It had taken a couple of trips back, but the doctor had finally found the mass he had felt. Within a day or two he had been sent to a specialist. Upon examining him, the doctor was obviously shocked. Disquieted by this, he repeated asked what was wrong. But no answer had been forthcoming. The doctor simply said she couldn't be sure until the lab tests come back. And now he sat, wife by his side, in his GP's waiting room, wondering what secrets those lab tests would reveal.

The GP walked out and called them into her office. They sat. The doctor began to cry.

"Tell us what's wrong?"

"You're full of it!"

"I know he's full of it, I've been telling him that for years!" his wife joked.

The doctor sobbed. "You're full of cancer!"

He began to cry. Large tears rolled down his cheeks. He shook as waves of grief rolled over him.

In twenty-five years of practice, she had never had to give someone such a bad report. The prognosis was poor. She was as devastated as he. Together doctor and patient wept. She had had the uneviable job of telling him he had cancer and he had had the uneviable job of hearing it.