A Daughter Dies of Cancer

Nearly four years to the day she was diagnosed, her oncologist tells you there’s nothing more he can do.

You take her home and let her live her life. You put your own life on hold so you can drive her to school, to parties and to the performances she loves: She’s a musician, and you live to hear her beautiful voice.

She has one final scan. She’s been struggling for breath. She’s been extremely pale. She’s been getting fevers every night that spike as high as 103. You learn that the tumor near her left lung is now the size of a grapefruit. It’s close to her heart. The oncologist says he’s sorry. He does not schedule any more scans. He does not schedule any more ­follow-ups.

She lives for three months longer. With the help of hospice and palliative care, she is able to stay home. She goes to a final birthday party, meets her friends for a final lunch date. She texts her best friend the night before she dies: “I’ll see you this weekend.”

It is March 22, 2017. The outside world is gray and cold, covered with snow. You and your husband sit beside her in her bedroom and listen to her labored breathing. You tell her you love her. You tell her you’re proud of her. You tell her you’re sorry you couldn’t save her. You tell her it’s okay to go.

She opens her eyes — those big blue eyes you know better than your own — and sighs one last time. Then she’s gone.

Jaqueline Dooley in the Washington Post