The men that care…

It’s a women’s ward so a man stands out like a sore thumb here and is to be closely watched...
She is forty-something, a mother of five... She’s a sorry picture... She just lies there, a mere shadow of a human being…all skin and bones... almost not there!! Except for her abdomen which is grossly distended by the cancer growing in there, flourishing at her expense. Her eyes follow our every move. That , and the slow rise and fall of her chest are the only indicators that she is still with us. Those sunken hollows plead with us to help, to release her from her suffering one way or another...
He’s always there... He feeds her, dresses her… We talk to the patient through him, for we don’t speak her language. We ask our questions and he only occasionally has to consult her; he knows most things about her and her illness off head. We explain that we cannot operate just yet; she is very unwell, we must be sure of where the cancer is coming from and how far it has spread. He nods his understanding, tells her what we’ve said, airs her concerns and queries...
We ask, “You are her husband?”
He replies, “She is my sister.”