MY BROTHER DEMANDED TO SEE THE NURSE’S NOTES ON OUR DYING MOTHER
He stood in the doorway, blocking the lobby light, eyes narrowed as he held out his hand for the folder. “Give them to me, now,” he hissed low, but sharp enough to make me flinch away. I clutched the thin sheaf of papers tighter, feeling the fragile edge against my palm.
“These are Mom’s private records, Kevin. Confidential. You can’t just—” I started, my voice wavering. This felt wrong.
“I have a right! What are you trying to hide from me about her treatment?” His voice rose, echoing slightly in the quiet hallway. He stepped closer, the cold air from the door following him. I felt the thin paper crinkle under my grip.
He snatched them before I could react, tearing open the folder, flipping through the typed pages frantically. His breathing quickened. The low hum of the fluorescent lights felt deafening. He stopped abruptly on one page, his face freezing in shock. “No,” he whispered, barely audible. “This can’t be true. Not this.”
His eyes went wide, he shoved the notes back, and then I heard footsteps approaching rapidly.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…The folder slipped from his fingers, scattering papers on the linoleum floor. He stumbled back, eyes still wide and fixed on the empty space where the words had been just moments before. A tall, calm-faced nurse, Susan, rounded the corner and stopped, her gaze sweeping from the scattered notes to Kevin’s pale face, then to me.
“Is everything alright here?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm. She knelt smoothly, gathering the loose papers.
Kevin turned to her, his chest heaving. “You… you stopped the treatment,” he choked out, pointing a trembling finger at the retrieved folder in her hand. “It says here you stopped it last week! Why wasn’t I told? Why didn’t anyone tell me you were just… just letting her go?”
My stomach dropped. That was it. The notes weren’t about a sudden decline or a new complication, but the confirmation of a decision. Mom had been clear, as clear as she could be in her moments of lucidity, that she didn’t want aggressive interventions once things reached a certain point. Dad had agreed, and I had supported them. Kevin, living three states away and often in denial about Mom’s true condition, hadn’t been privy to those difficult, whispered conversations by her bedside, or perhaps he simply hadn’t accepted the reality when it was mentioned.
Susan stood up, holding the notes carefully. She didn’t look flustered, only compassionate. “Kevin, perhaps we should step somewhere private to talk about this,” she said gently, glancing between us. “Your mother’s care plan has been focused on comfort for the past week, following discussions with your father and sister, and reflecting your mother’s previously expressed wishes.”
“Wishes? She’s dying and you just… stopped trying?” Kevin’s voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes, mixing with his anger and shock. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a short, agitated path in the hallway.
“We are absolutely still trying, Kevin,” Susan said softly but firmly. “We are trying to ensure her remaining time is peaceful, comfortable, and dignified, free from unnecessary procedures or pain. This is what your mother wanted, and what is medically appropriate given her condition.”
He stopped pacing, looking lost. His earlier aggression seemed to drain away, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable grief. He looked at me, his expression pleading for confirmation, for me to deny what he’d read. But I just met his gaze, my own eyes stinging.
“It’s true, Kevin,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. “It was Mom’s decision. Dad and I… we just supported what she wanted. She was tired of fighting the machines, the tubes. She wanted to be comfortable.”
He sank onto a nearby bench, burying his face in his hands, his body shaking with silent sobs. The folder of notes lay on the bench beside him, no longer a weapon but a heavy testament to an ending he wasn’t ready to face. Susan sat down beside him, not touching him, just offering a quiet, steady presence. I stood there, watching my brother finally break, the shock of the written word stripping away his denial and leaving him vulnerable to the full force of his grief for our dying mother. We just sat there, in the quiet hallway, united by the approaching sorrow, the nurse’s notes a silent, painful witness to our family’s difficult journey.