“How much time do I have now?”

His voice on the phone was calm, almost casual. We had discussed the sudden cold wave, his family, his niece’s recent grand wedding, Jasprit Bumrah’s lethal bowling—everything except his illness. Then, out of the blue, he asked that question.

It’s a question I hear often. Families ask it when hope starts to fade. Patients ask it when they’re gathering the courage to face reality. Sometimes, they don’t ask at all—fear keeps the words trapped. They want to seem strong, to keep fighting. Or maybe they notice the doctor’s haste and hold back.

Doctors avoid the question too. We circle around it, pretending optimism. We dismiss their anxiety. We brush off their worries and offer promises that may never be fulfilled.

Predicting the future is never easy. As Lauren Rissman, a palliative care physician, once described it, prognostication is “an imperfect art of foreseeing what lies ahead—like piecing together a puzzle while knowing that some pieces will always be missing.

It’s true—predictions fail more often than we’d like to admit.

Not long ago, my residents treated a young man who had ingested a lethal pesticide. His brain was swelling, his heart barely pumping, his lungs rigid and infected, his liver failing, and his kidneys completely shut down. Twice, he went into cardiac arrest—just a straight line on the monitor—and each time, the residents managed to revive him.

I was convinced he wouldn’t make it. Almost certain.

Two months later, he walked out of the hospital.

And then there was the man with pneumonia. His recovery seemed swift. We removed the ventilator, and soon he no longer needed oxygen. The tubes came out, and he began talking about going home. We believed we had triumphed.

But we were wrong. He died suddenly—likely from a clot in his lungs.

Once again, I had misjudged.

During our MBBS and MD training, we were never taught how to talk about death. In my early years, we avoided these conversations altogether. Breaking bad news was often left to the junior doctor—without guidance or preparation.

Now, back to him.

He was in his late seventies. Years ago, surgeons had discovered cancer in his abdomen. They removed as much as they could, followed by three rounds of chemotherapy. The treatment took his hair but not his resolve.

His hair grew back, as did his determination to fight. Blood tests, chemo sessions—nothing fazed him anymore. He studied his reports with quiet acceptance. Though he ate less than he should and felt increasingly tired, he never voiced a word of complaint.

He was the picture of resilience

“So, how much time do I have?” he asked again, his tone steady.

I hesitated. Did he truly want an honest answer, or was he looking for comfort?

“Maybe a year or two,” I said softly.

He laughed.

“One year?” he said, still laughing.

His reaction caught me off guard. I expected sadness or frustration, but instead, he seemed… relieved.

“You know,” he said, “there was a time when every extra month felt like a victory. I truly believed I could beat this. I thought I’d win.”

He paused, his voice gentler now.

“Not anymore. I’m tired. I don’t want to keep fighting. I just want peace. Don’t try to prolong my life—just help me go peacefully.”

He probably wasn’t familiar with living wills or advance care directives, but his experience had taught him something invaluable—how to recognize when to keep fighting and when to let go with dignity

After decades of practicing medicine and teaching residents, I’m still learning how to navigate these conversations. In the palliative care ward, I spend a lot of time with families. I’ve learned to sit with their tears and silences, to feel their anger, and to bear their grief.

Doctors are expected to provide hope. Patients look to us to fight for them. No one wants to be the one to sever that thread of hope.

But moments like this remind me that truth, though hard, can bring a different kind of comfort.

“Honestly, I don’t really know. It could be a few months, or maybe a few years,” I said. “These biopsies, scans, and labs—they don’t always give us the answers we expect.”

He laughed again. “So, you were lying earlier. Now you’re being honest.”

He was right.