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the front door I was confronted by several neighbors surrounding my mother who was lying on the floor. She had a broken leg and was moaning of pain. “You will be fine, Mom!” I repeated several times, though I knew it was not going to be an easy ride. She was in her 70s, a relatively healthy woman who managed all the house chores by herself. A retired university librarian, she always had a few humorous stories to tell about her interactions with college students to cheer me up when I came back from long night shifts during my medical internship. She rarely complained of anything until one evening when what seemed to be a minor backache was bothering her. “Did you carry something heavy again, Mom?” I asked. “It was only a small shopping bag,” she answered with a guilty smile. Through the next three weeks, her backache turned into radicular pain. An evaluation by a neurologist, who was a former classmate, comforted us that the pain should be stemming from a minor discopathy and prescribed ibuprofen, a muscle relaxant, and adequate rest. However, the pain did not go away.

Delivering Bad News: When My Patient Was My Own Mother