By Jeff Sharlet
“It’s very trendy to talk about ‘vulnerable populations,’” he says, anger lacing his normally measured tone. “But to my eye, it’s hard to imagine a more vulnerable population than the terminally ill. And yet in our rush not to abandon them therapeutically, we often abandon them prognostically.”
The same can’t be said for Mary O’Reilly, a south-side resident Christakis decides to check on the same afternoon that he learns of Holbrook’s death. Standing in his dining room in a Hyde Park brownstone, he calls Horizon Hospice to ask if O’Reilly needs a visit. She’s 68. She has emphysema. There’s nothing left for her doctors to do, so she’s gone home to die, with Horizon’s help.
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Mrs. O’Reilly glances at the stranger who’s seized her hand. Her skin is pale yellow and her hair is the white of snow under twilight. Her eyes, enormous and black, fly away from him to the ceiling. “Do you know who I am?” Christakis asks again. Mrs. O’Reilly’s eyes alight on his. Her lips stretch tight into an open-mouthed smile of perfect teeth–dentures. And they’re bothering her. She releases her son’s hand and tries to point. Christakis asks her if she’d like them removed. She can’t answer.
“Sometimes her hands reach up,” Constance interjects. She wants to know if that’s a sign of the end.
Then Constance changes the subject: Are chocolate shakes good for her mother? Christakis smiles. Yes, he says. Anything she enjoys is good for her. And are the antibiotics good for her? Justin wants to know. Will they make her live longer? Yes, Christakis answers–to the latter question.
