In the quiet palliative ward of our hospital, a son whispered a question that carried the weight of the world: ‘Could I take my mother home?
Usually, such requests 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, no triumph. His question wasn’t about healing. It was about letting go.
His mother was dying.
His mother, a 60-year-old woman from a small village three hours away by bus, had lived a life of hardship. Fragile in body but strong in spirit, she had raised her son alone after losing her husband. For decades, her days were spent toiling in the fields—planting, deweeding, harvesting, and collecting firewood—tasks that required hard work.
Six weeks ago, her strength began to fail. No longer able to go to the fields, even simple tasks she once did effortlessly—cooking, cleaning, even getting dressed—became impossible. Her strength ebbed away. A hospital visit brought the harsh truth: a breast tumor, the size of a small orange, malignant and aggressive. Scans revealed the cancer had spread to her liver, lungs, and spine. Surgery was impossible, and neither radiation nor chemotherapy offered any hope.
“She doesn’t have much time,” a resident told her son hurriedly, the words landing with the sharpness of a blade. The resident’s training had prepared him to diagnose and treat, but not to deliver bad news. There was no quiet space, no time for empathy—just the blunt truth delivered in a sterile corridor.
The message came out quickly, with none of the softness the situation called for.
The son stood silently, his heart heavy with the weight of those words. His family—his wife and infant son, living in a cramped hut—was already struggling with poverty. As a daily-wage laborer with no savings, how could he care for his dying mother? Love battled helplessness. He had no means for treatment, no support, only the gnawing fear that his devotion might not be enough to ease her pain.
What if she stops eating? What if she starts vomiting, becomes confused, or her belly swells? What if she can’t breathe? The sons’ mind raced with fears.
As he paced the corridor, a hospital attendant noticed his quiet despair. He nodded toward the nearby palliative care ward. “We can move her there,” he suggested. It was a place focused on comfort, not cure. His heart sank, but a flicker of hope stirred.
He brought her to our palliative ward, hoping for something more. He had seen others turned away after doctors admitted they could do nothing more. His mother was settled into a bed, and for the first time in days, he lay down too.
The familiar sound of guards roughly pushing relatives out of hospital wards lingered in his mind. But this time, no one came to drive him away. No longer forced to sit on hard benches or doze on cold floors, he finally closed his eyes. He drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep.
We focused on easing her pain, calming her cough, and helping her breathe. Oxygen flowed into her nose, and a tube carried food into her body. For a fleeting moment, she seemed better, and hope flickered—fragile, but present.
We were taking our morning round in the ward when we found him at her bedside. Three days had passed since she was admitted. Her breathing was shallow, the oxygen mask fogging with each laboured exhale. He sat close, hunched over, his hands resting on the edge of her blanket. His shirt, wrinkled and stained, hung loosely on his tired frame.
Unshaven and disheveled, his torn shirt and worn slippers spoke of empty pockets. Exhaustion weighed on him, and fear clouded his eyes.
“I want to take my mother home. Please discharge her,” he said, his voice heavy with fatigue, trembling slightly. His cracked, parched lips and slurred words betrayed nights without rest. This wasn’t just a request; it was a plea. He understood the risks but wanted her among familiar faces, surrounded by elders, grasping for a shred of control in an 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 shook, but his voice stayed firm. He wasn’t reckless. His decision was born of necessity: no money, no support, no space for her in their tiny home.
We let her go.
Her story lingers with me. Why did he want to take her back? Was it love, family duty, or something more practical? When he said, “I want to do what the elders think is right,” I wondered what “right” truly meant to him in a life shaped by so many compromises.
In her family, the elders decided everything. All her life, she listened to them, and so did her son. Even now, at the edge of life, their decisions 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 lighten 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 so little space for dignity?
Perhaps all we can offer is a fragile, flawed space where families can say goodbye—on their terms. Imperfect, yet deeply human.
