There was an interesting article in last Tuesday's New York Times reviewing a book called "Swimming in a Sea of Death". The book was written by the son of author Susan Sontag about her long agonizing battle with cancer. Ms. Sontag 'beat' two types of cancer before finally succumbing to a third after a long, painful battle. Throughout her struggle, Ms. Sontag mainatined that she would beat this third cancer. Her son's role was head cheerleader. "His job was to enthusiastically endorse her struggle, always to be optimistic and supportive and never, ever to talk about death." In spite of her being "...covered in sores, incontinent, and half delirious" his role was to tell her she looked better than the day before, that she was improving.
The point that struck me most was this: the son "wound up entangled in the single biggest dilemma in medicine: how to calculate the dose of hope, that most powerful of all medications, to be dispensed in hopeless cases. The professionals stumble here all the time. No child could or should be asked to get it right for a parent"
When my mother's father was in hospice with lymphoma about 10 years ago, I can recall visiting him and struggling with the same question. I stayed always optimistic, and some extent in denial, about the prospects of recovery. And yet it felt disingenuous. And that's a lousy way to feel in the final weeks or days of a relationship with a loved one.