I said: Mom.
She said: this is not pleasant for you.
I said: it’s less pleasant for you.
She said: I’m sorry.
I said: stop.
She looked at me.
She said: I don’t know how to.
I said: I know.
She said: it’s very hard to let people help.
I said: I know.
She said: your father never had to let anyone help him. He died before he needed it.
I said: yes.
She said: I envy him sometimes.
I said: Mom.
She said: not for being dead. For not having to be the one who is helped.
I said: yes.
I held her hand.
The bag dripped.
The infusion room was quiet and efficiently organized and the nurses moved through it with the practiced care of people who had been doing this work long enough that the efficiency and the care had become the same thing.
