As I shut the door behind me, the noises of a full ward faded, giving way to the gentle sounds of a humidifier and an elderly woman who was struggling to breathe. Her eyes were closed, and an oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth. I glanced at the windowsill, where multiple cards were displayed—a child’s drawing peeking out of one. Flowers were on the bedside table, and a family photo was displayed nearby. This was a well-loved woman. I had witnessed her decline with each hospital visit, and it was obvious that the end was approaching. She knew it, too, and had requested to speak with me that day. When I sat gently on the bed, her eyes opened. Recognizing me, she gave a faint smile from underneath her mask. I reached for her hand and leaned forward so that we might hear each other. Her hand was frail …