We think we have time

Roberta is in the hospital, dying. Her body has been distilled to skin and skeleton and wisps of tissue; she has metastatic ovarian cancer. Thomas, her husband, sits on a bedside cot; it is where he lives and sleeps. A small table holds his pills, water glass, newspaper, Reader's Digest and two photographs. One is a grainy, dog-eared snapshot of his wife on their wedding day 50 years ago; the other, their dead son on his twenty-fifth birthday. He lifts the photographs from the table and traces the outlines of their faces with a trembling finger. Within minutes, her breathing becomes erratic and shallow. A soft snore escapes her lips, then, silence. I press my stethoscope to her chest; her breath and heart are quiet.