In the stillness of our palliative ward, a son gently asked, “Can I take my mother home?”

Usually, such requests in the hospital come with relief. Patients leave with hope, their battles behind them. Families, grateful and smiling, thank the doctors. It feels like a victory—a hard-fought battle finally won.
But this time, there was no joy or triumph. No happiness. His question wasn’t about hope—it was about saying goodbye.

His mother was dying.

His mother, a 60-year-old woman from a small village three hours away by bus, had endured a life of struggle. She was frail , but her spirit was strong.. After losing her husband, she single-handedly raised her son. For decades, her days were filled with labour—planting, weeding, harvesting, and gathering firewood—work that demanded a lot of effort.

Six weeks ago, her strength began to wane. Once capable of managing her daily tasks with ease—cooking, cleaning, even dressing—she found them slipping beyond her reach. A visit to the hospital unveiled a harsh reality: a breast tumor, the size of a small orange, malignant and aggressive. Scans showed the cancer had already spread to her liver, lungs, and spine. Surgery was not an option, and neither radiation nor chemotherapy could offer hope.

“She doesn’t have much time,” the resident told her son hastily, the words cutting like a blade. His medical training had equipped him to diagnose and treat, but not to deliver devastating news. There was no quiet room, no moment for compassion—just the raw truth, shared in the cold, impersonal space of a hospital corridor.

The son stood in silence, his heart burdened by the weight of those words. His family—his wife and infant son, living in a tiny, crowded hut—was already trapped in the grip of poverty. As a daily-wage laborer with no savings, how could he possibly care for his dying mother? Love wrestled with helplessness. He had no money for treatment, no support system, and only the aching fear that his love alone might not be enough to ease her suffering.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦? His mind raced, overwhelmed by a storm of fears and unanswered questions.
As he paced the corridor, a hospital attendant noticed his quiet despair. He gestured toward the nearby palliative care ward. “We can move her there,” he suggested. It was a place dedicated to comfort, not cure. The son’s heart sank, yet a small flicker of hope stirred within him.

He brought her to our palliative ward, clinging to the hope of finding something more. He had witnessed others being turned away when doctors admitted they could do no more. His mother was settled into a bed, and for the first time in days, he lay down in a caregiver bed beside her.

The familiar sound of guards pushing relatives out of hospital wards echoed in his mind. But this time, no one came to turn him away. No longer forced to sit on hard benches or sleep on cold floors, he finally closed his eyes. Exhausted, he drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

We focused on easing her pain, soothing her cough, and helping her breathe. Oxygen flowed gently into her nose, while a tube provided nourishment. For a brief moment, she seemed a little better, and hope flickered—fragile, yet still alive.

We were making our morning rounds in the ward when we found him at her bedside. Three days had passed since her admission. Her breathing was shallow, the oxygen mask fogging with each labored exhale. He sat close, hunched over, his hands gently resting on the edge of her blanket. His shirt, wrinkled and stained, hung loosely on his weary frame.

Unshaven and disheveled, his torn shirt and worn slippers revealed the strain of empty pockets. Exhaustion hung heavily on him, and fear filled his eyes.

“I want to take my mother home. Please discharge her,” he said, his voice thick with fatigue, trembling slightly. His cracked, parched lips and slurred words spoke of nights without sleep. This wasn’t just a request; it was a desperate plea. He understood the risks, but he longed to have her surrounded by familiar faces, by elders—grasping for any shred of control in an otherwise uncontrollable situation.

We hesitated. She wasn’t stable. The journey could worsen her condition—or worse, take her life.

“My relatives want to see her one last time,” he explained. “They’re too old to come here. I know she might not survive long, but I have to take her back.”

His hands trembled, but his voice remained steady. He wasn’t being reckless. His decision came from necessity: no money, no support, and no space for her in their cramped home.

We let her go.

Her story stays with me. Why did he want to take her back? Was it love, a sense of family duty, or something more practical? When he said, “I want to do what the elders think is right,” I found myself questioning what “right” truly meant to him, in a life shaped by so many sacrifices and compromises.

In her family, the elders made all the decisions. Throughout her life, she listened to them, and so did her son. Even now, at the brink of life, their decisions still guided him—leaving little room for his own.

Her illness wasn’t just cancer. It was poverty, fear, helplessness, and exhaustion. Medicine could ease her pain, but it couldn’t lift the crushing weight of his circumstances.

Palliative care often feels like an imperfect science. How do we bring comfort to the dying when their lives are shaped by relentless struggle, leaving little room for dignity?

Perhaps all we can offer is a fragile, flawed space where families can say goodbye—on their own terms. Imperfect, yet profoundly human.