Chapter 2: Alicia’s Story

Over the following weeks, Alicia became a familiar face in the hospital.

She was originally from a small town, where she had grown up with her younger sister, Nora. Their parents had passed away several years earlier, leaving the sisters to depend on each other.

Alicia had never married and did not have children. She had spent much of her adult life working, traveling when she could, and helping her family.

She was particularly close to her grandmother, who had raised the sisters for several years after their parents died.

Her grandmother had left Alicia a financial inheritance, which she had carefully managed. Alicia rarely discussed money, and whenever the subject came up, she quickly changed the conversation.

She preferred talking about ordinary things.

She told me about the small garden she had maintained before becoming ill. She talked about her favorite restaurants, the books she wanted to read, and the places she had always hoped to visit.

One afternoon, I found her looking at photographs on her phone.

“These are from Italy,” she said, showing me pictures of beautiful streets, old buildings, and the ocean.

“Have you been there?”

“Twice. The first time with my grandmother. The second time alone.”

“Which trip did you enjoy more?”

She thought about it.

“The first one. I would give anything to walk those streets with her again.”

There was something about the way she spoke that made me realize how much she valued memories.

She was not someone who measured life by possessions. She remembered people, conversations, and moments that most of us would probably forget.

As her physician, my responsibility was to monitor her condition, explain treatment options, and help her understand what was happening.

Unfortunately, her cancer was becoming increasingly resistant to treatment.

The medical team tried different approaches, adjusted medications, and consulted specialists. Every possibility was carefully considered.

For a while, there were small improvements.

Alicia would have better days when she could walk around the hospital, eat a proper meal, and talk about returning home.

But those days became less frequent.

Eventually, the treatment that had once offered some hope stopped working.

Her condition deteriorated rapidly.

The doctors explained that there were no longer effective treatment options capable of controlling the disease. The focus shifted toward palliative care, pain management, and preserving her comfort.

It was one of the most difficult conversations I had experienced.

I had delivered bad news before, but that never made it easier.

When I explained the situation, Alicia listened without interrupting.

She did not cry immediately.

She simply looked down at her hands.

After a long silence, she asked:

“How much time do I have?”

I explained that it was difficult to predict accurately. It could be days or perhaps longer, but the situation was serious.

She nodded.

“Thank you for telling me the truth.”

I wanted to say something encouraging, but I knew that empty promises would only make things worse.

Instead, I told her that we would continue doing everything possible to keep her comfortable.

She smiled weakly.

“I know you will.”