*Kathryn Paul (Kathy) is a survivor of many things, including cancer and downsizing. Her poems have appeared in* Rogue Agent, Hospital Drive, The Ekphrastic Review, Lunch Ticket, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Pictures of Poets, and Poets Unite! The LiTFUSE @10 Anthology. Her poem ***“To the Woman at My Mother’s Funeral Who Thought It Was So Lovely That My Mother Died at Home”*** *appears in the Spring 2022* Intima; another of her poems “**Dementia Waltz” *appeared in the Spring 2021* Intima.**

In her beautiful Field Notes essay “Not in Our Bed” (Intima, Spring 2017), Giamila Fantuzzi shares her husband’s desire not to die at home. His cancer had “run its course,” and after multiple emergencies, S. was certain he needed and wanted to spend his last days in what Fantuzzi describes as “a neutral, caring environment where he could finally let go.” I was struck by the strength and clarity of their decision.

My mother died at home. Was it right for her? Almost eight years later, I still don’t have an answer. In her family, there were stories of aged relatives dozing in the spare bedroom, turning their faces to the wall, passing peacefully from this life to the next. Hospice at home seemed the logical choice when it became obvious that no amount of chemo would eradicate the tumors raging through my mother’s body.

For a while, “home” was synonymous with “quality of life.” Help and advice were a phone call away. A nurse visited once a week. Hospice provided a kit full of medications they told us we’d need—someday.

My mother had a living will. She was crystal clear about two needs: “I want to be comfortable. I don’t want to be afraid.” But we never talked about where.

Her runaway illness veered abruptly from “still living” to “actively dying,” and suddenly there was no time to discuss options. No time to ask what would suit her best. No time to do or think about anything except the next crisis. My sole purpose became meeting her two expressed wishes:

Comfort.

No fear.

In the urgency of the moment, my aunt and I did the best we could. We replaced Mom’s beloved four-poster bed with a safer, adjustable hospital bed. We used the blessed medications in the hospice kit. We hired aides to help with the endless nights.

Reading “Not in Our Bed,” I imagined the difficult and loving conversations Fantuzzi and her husband must have had. I honor their choice. And I wonder: Would a neutral, professional setting have been better for my mother’s last days? Was she even aware, towards the bitter end, of where she was, who she was with, or what was happening?

I don’t know. All I could do was the next right thing. All I could do was keep my promise: Comfort. No fear.

Kathryn Paul (Kathy) is a survivor of many things, including cancer and downsizing. Her poems have appeared in Rogue Agent, Hospital Drive, The Ekphrastic Review, Lunch Ticket, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Pictures of Poets, and Poets Unite! The LiTFUSE @10 Anthology. Her poem “To the Woman at My Mother’s Funeral Who Thought It Was So Lovely That My Mother Died at Home” appears in the Spring 2022 Intima; another of her poems “Dementia Waltz” appeared in the Spring 2021 Intima.