Not Telling and Not Knowing: Comfort at the End of Life?

I knocked on Denise’s door, and a weak voice told me to come in. When I entered, Denise was lying in bed, barely able to lift her head from the pillow. Her body was skeletal, and her arms were the bruised color of cancer and chemotherapy. Intravenous lines dangled, as saline and morphine flowed into her veins. A breakfast tray sat untouched on the bedside table. The room smelled of sweat, sickness and sadness. I pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down and explained who I was and what I did.