My heart squeezes because he’s captured the crux of his problem: It really may be too late

“He’s dying? Not sure I believe it. I’ve never met a man who lies as much as my brother.”

“Alex, I’m privy to every patient’s medical file, and unfortunately, the reality is that your brother is dying. The cancer has metastasized all over his body,” I say into the phone, trying to infuse both silk and steel into my voice. “He knows he made mistakes, and those mistakes have been haunting him. He’s asking, begging really, that you come. He wants to speak to you while he still can.”

“Classic!” The man literally snorts. “I’m supposed to trek across the country, rush to his bedside so he can relieve his guilty conscience. And those ‘mistakes’?” Another snort. “Gotta love it. A mistake is when you bump into another car because you misjudged how far it was from yours. No one robs his only brother of his entire inheritance ‘by mistake.’ ” His voice cracks, pain oozing past the rage.

“He hurt you,” I say quietly. “He hurt you badly.” I pause, letting my words sink in, letting the man on the other side of the line know that his pain is seen, acknowledged, heard. That has to happen before I can move forward.

There’s heavy breathing, and then, slowly, it softens. I take that as my cue. “Alex, you have every right to say you never want to see Robert again. No one would blame you — not even Robert. Especially not Robert.” I pause. Then, “But picture a year from now. The doctor estimates Robert has a month left, two tops. How will you feel in a year, in five years, in ten years, when you think back to this time, to your brother being alone during the scariest moments of his life?”

I give it another pause to let it sink in, let him face the bleak reality, the stark options ahead of him.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” I say. “I don’t expect, or even want, an answer right now. Think it over. I’ll call you back in a few days.” I wait a heartbeat, then end the call.

I walk slowly back to Robert’s room. He looks up, his eyes alight with hope while his mouth droops downward in defeated resignation. “He said no. Right? He hates me!” he says as soon as I enter.

I choose my response carefully. I will never lie to a dying person — or any person for that matter. But I also believe that the full truth is sometimes too brutal to hear. “He isn’t ready just yet,” I finally say. “But we spoke, and it sounds like he’s considering it.”

“Considering isn’t enough! I need him to come!”

“Robert, how many years did it take for this fight to drive you completely apart?”

Robert looks down. “Not long at all. I was a total jerk. Our relationship exploded only five or six weeks after our parents died.”

“We may need to give it that much time to heal.”

“I don’t have that much time,” he hisses, the words laced with both anger and raw terror. I give a noncommittal nod and bring him ice water with a straw. The blisters on his mouth make it hard to drink, but he needs to stay hydrated.

“I’ll call Alex next week. Overhauling feelings in an hour is hard. Let the new reality sink in for a few days.”

“A lot of help you are. I thought you end-of-life doulas are supposed to ‘facilitate meaningful interactions with family and foster reconciliation if necessary.’ ” He surrounds the words he must have memorized from our brochure in air quotes and throws in an eye roll for good measure. “Sure don’t look like reconciliation to me.”

When people are least likeable is when they need you the most, I remind myself as I take a deep breath. Then I look Robert in the eyes.

“This is disappointing. I wish my conversation with Alex had gone differently. But I’ll keep trying until things change.”

“Or until I die,” he mutters.

And my heart squeezes because he’s captured the crux of his problem: It really may be too late.