There are moments in my career when I feel utterly powerless.
I can help someone access funding to fulfill a dream, delay a utility shut-off, avoid eviction, even get out of jail for a day.
I can provide crisis intervention, empathic listening, reassurance and support.
But when a man too young to die cries with the grief of losing his ability to swallow without coughing, increasingly paralyzed from his feet to his head, with a future only dimmer, what, really, am I to do?
I tell him we will keep him comfortable. But what is comfort to a man with ALS?
Death. Simple.
And he begs for it. He cries for it.
All I can do is be the hand that wipes his tears and say that I am sorry.
