Her greatest fear was of a stroke or some other catastrophe that would force her to live on for unwanted years, unable to care for herself. Her own mother, after a stroke, had spent the end of her life in a nursing-home wheelchair.

In a phone call two weeks to the day after her initial question, my mother did follow up: “Did you get a chance to think about what I asked?” Of course I had. I had spent large chunks of time obsessing about it. So I gave the only answer I could stand to give, the only kind answer I could think of.

“Yes,” I said. “If you ever need my help, of course I will help you.”

Then I changed the subject, but not before hearing the immense relief and gratitude in her voice. Even though I was quite sure my definition of “help” did not match hers, to answer otherwise would have been cruel. What did it matter, I thought; she couldn’t possibly hold me to it, and with a little luck it will never come up. And in fact, the subject did not come up again for more than a decade.

A couple of months short of her 87th birthday, my mother began to complain repeatedly of being unable to work the remote for her large-screen television. Each time she said this, someone would painstakingly walk her through the steps. But a few days later something would go wrong and she would need help again. A few weeks later, when her shower faucet went on the blink, it finally dawned on me that the fault might lie not in the remote or the faucet but in their user. I persuaded her to see her internist, and I called to let him know my concerns.

Image Credit... Vivienne Flesher

The internist called me right after her appointment to tell me she was being admitted to the hospital. She was wheezing, and a chest X-ray showed pneumonia. In addition, the brain M.R.I. showed several lesions  strongly suggestive of a tumor.