The senior oncologist was gentle, and he was honest, and I hated every true thing he said.

The scans showed the cancer had spread extensively through the lining of her abdomen.

The obstructions would keep recurring.

They could stabilize the current infection, and offer a mild course of treatment aimed at comfort — but, he said, we needed to be clear together about the goal.

And then he used the word I could not bear. Palliative. To me, in my ignorance and my desperation, it sounded like surrender.

“So you’re not even going to try to cure her?” I demanded.