In our quiet ward, a son softly asked, “Can I take my mother home?”

Usually, such requests mean relief. Patients leave with hope, their struggles behind them. Grateful families thank the doctors, smiling. It feels like a victory.

But this time, there was no joy. 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 every ounce of her strength.

Six weeks ago, her strength began to fade. Tasks she once did easily—cooking, cleaning, even dressing—became too hard. A hospital visit revealed a harsh truth: a breast tumor, the size of a small orange, malignant and aggressive. Scans showed the cancer had spread to her liver, lungs, and spine. Surgery wasn’t an option, and neither radiation nor chemotherapy could help.

“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 such crushing 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 heavy with those words. His family—his wife and infant son, living in a small, crowded hut—was already trapped in poverty. As a daily-wage laborer with no savings, how could he care for his dying mother? Love clashed with helplessness. He had no money for treatment, no support system, and only the 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 pointed 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 a fragile hope. He had seen others turned away when doctors could do no more. But here, his mother was settled into a bed, and for the first time in days, he lay down in a caregiver bed beside her.

In this quiet place, he found a bit of peace. It wasn’t a cure, but it gave comfort. The ward was a safe place where love and care could grow, even in life’s toughest times. For now, that had to be enough.

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.

In that moment of rest, he found a bit of relief from the heavy burden he carried. Here, in the palliative ward, with soft whispers and gentle care, he realized he could be there for his mother in a way he hadn’t been able to before.

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

During our morning rounds, we found him by her bedside. Three days had passed since she was admitted. Her breathing was shallow, the oxygen mask fogging with each strained exhale. He sat close, hunched over, his hands gently on her blanket. His wrinkled and stained shirt hung loosely on his tired frame.

Unshaven and dishevelled, his torn shirt and worn slippers showed the strain of his empty pockets. Exhaustion weighed on him, and fear filled his eyes.

“I want to take my mother home. Please let her go,” he said. His voice was thick with tiredness and shook a bit. His lips were cracked and dry, and his words were slow, showing he hadn’t slept. This wasn’t just a request; it was a desperate plea. He knew the dangers, but he wanted her to be with familiar faces and elders—searching for any bit of control in a situation he couldn’t control.

We waited. She wasn’t stable. The trip could make her worse or even end her life.

“My family wants to see her one last time,” he said. “They’re too old to come here. I know she might not live long, but I have to take her back.”

His hands shook, but his voice was steady. He wasn’t being reckless. He had no choice: no money, no help, and no room for her at home.

We let her go.

Her story stays with me. Why did he want to take her back? Was it love, family duty, or something practical? When he said, “I want to do what the elders think is right,” I wondered what “right” meant to him, in a life full of sacrifices and tough choices.

In her family, the elders made all the choices. Throughout her life, she obeyed them, and so did her son. Even now, at life’s edge, their choices 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 heavy burden of his circumstances

Palliative care often feels an imperfect science. How do we comfort the dying when their lives are full of hard struggles, leaving little room for dignity?

Maybe all we can give is a fragile, flawed space where families can say goodbye—in their own way. Imperfect, yet deeply human.