Ezoic
“What decisions?”
Marguerite looked at Nathan. Then at me.
“Can we talk privately for a moment?”
She told me in a little room with a box of tissues on the table.
Greg had a variceal bleed. Blood vessels in his esophagus, swollen from liver failure, had burst. He’d lost a lot of blood. The doctors had stopped the bleeding. For now. But his liver was shutting down. His kidneys were starting to fail.
“He’s stable at the moment,” Marguerite said. “But Mrs…. Laura. He doesn’t have long. Days. Maybe a week. Maybe less.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He has an advance directive,” she said. “He did it at the VA in May. When he got his diagnosis. No resuscitation. No machines. Comfort care only. He wants to be kept comfortable. He wants to be awake as much as possible.”
“Okay.”
“And he listed an emergency contact,” Marguerite said. She slid a piece of paper across the table. “On the directive. In May.”
