"It's common in advanced patients," Dr. Levine said, pulling me back to reality. She was the kind, attentive doctor who had been caring for Mom. I couldn't tear my eyes away from her—there she was, in a hospital gown, her body hooked up to machines that beeped and hummed, an oxygen mask strapped to her face. Her eyes were closed, and the stillness of her frail figure felt like a cruel reminder of how far things had gone.
"It's okay," I whispered to myself, though I wasn't sure who I was trying to reassure.
Dr. Levine stayed by my side, her voice steady. She was a good few inches shorter than me, but I barely noticed the size difference. I was too focused on my mom. "Her oxygen levels have dropped significantly, and there's a real risk they'll continue to fall dangerously low. Her lungs are essentially filled with cancer. Without continuous oxygen, it will be increasingly difficult to maintain her safety outside the hospital."