One Final Sip

Abstract

The patient was in his 70s but appeared much older. Speaking in broken sentences, he nervously stated that he could not breathe. With each exhalation there were discomforting squeaks and whistles; with each intake of breath his nostrils widened, the muscles on his neck contracted, and his belly moved down towards his torso, making shallow craters in his abdominal wall. His lips had a bluish hue, and he said in barely discernible speech, “I have cancer.” There was guilt in his voice. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry.” The physician grabbed the man’s cool and clammy fingers, and rested them firmly against the palms of his hands while his internal autopilot shouted audible orders. “I need 125 milligrams of Solumedrol. He’s tiring out. I need 40 milligrams of Lasix. Someone get him a breathing treatment!”