A few weeks ago, I had just come home from work when I heard a soft knock at my apartment door. I asked “who’s there?” and could barely hear a very small voice replying.
I opened the door and saw a tiny woman: skeletally thin, bald– just a few tufts of dark hair standing up on a bruised skull. Her dark eyes were enormous. After a second of shock, I recognized her as my long-time neighbor, Anne.
I don’t know her well, but by instinct, I put my arms around her and tried to hold her.
She pulled back: “Please don’t,” she said, and she began to cry. “I’m so very sick. I hurt everywhere. It hurts when you touch me. I even screamed at Alan on the street,” she said referring to her husband, “when he tried to pat my back.”
I knew that Anne had suffered from cancer some years ago, and recently, I had heard that it had come back. A neighbor had told me that she was staying with friends in New Jersey while undergoing another round of chemo.
Now she has come home. I believe that she has come home to die.
She has come to me because her husband isn’t home (they separated before the cancer came back), and she can’t get into her apartment. She has two keys for the two locks to her front door and isn’t able to figure out how to use them.
She is apologetic: “The chemo does things to your mind,” she says.
Then she adds, “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name. But I know you wrote a wonderful book.”
I explain that the fact she doesn’t remember my name doesn’t matter. That she remembered the book is so very kind. “To me, that matters more,” I tell her.
I see the shadow of a smile. She has always been a very gracious woman, and at this moment, she realizes that, despite all of the pain, she still possesses the power to make others feel good.
When we get to her apartment, I open the locks. She won’t let me in—“The apartment is a mess,” she says. “And I just want to lie down.”
I understand that she wants to be alone. I persuade her to give me a piece of paper and write my phone number down, in case she needs something or someone during the night.
I don’t expect to hear from her. And I didn’t.
But I do find out that her husband is coming every day to visit her and bring her things she needs. I still think she has come home to die.
And I also believe that the chemo that was supposed to help her may have done her more harm than good. Of course, I don’t know for sure.
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