I went to see Susan this afternoon in the hospital. Zinnia came with me at Susan’s request, and while we were talking, Zinnia lay down and put her head on Susan’s feet, which were covered in heavy hospital socks.

Working with Zinnia unnerves me sometimes; Zinnia seems to have done this work before.

But she is so young.

She lay quiet for nearly an hour while we talked.

I was astonished at how Zinnia knew to touch Susan in some way, to get close to her, comfort her, without bothering her or getting too close or causing her any pain.

Nobody can teach this.

Susan continues to undergo tests at Saratoga Hospital while her doctors try to figure out precisely where the cancer is, and what kind of treatment they might be able to offer.

In medical talk, this cancer is “incurable,” but still “treatable,” which means chemotherapy or other forms of treatment. The tumor is metastasizing, and there will be a meeting later in the week to decide what to do next.

Susan told me today that she is not interested in hospice right now, she thinks she wants the cancer to be treated so that she may have more time to live, even if she is sometimes uncomfortable, or if the treatment is difficult.

This is her decision, as a hospice volunteer, I recuse myself from more than listening, I am not unbiased. I told Susan that. There is a meeting with her doctors on Friday, and she’s asked me to be there, and so will her brother.

Susan is prone to agreeing with people; she hates confrontation. This was an issue in our friendship.  I need to be conscious of that, and so must she.

This must be her choice, one of the most personal and important she will ever make.

But I told her I did feel strongly she needed to understand that everyone who knows her and cares about her believes that she cannot live in her house alone given her health issues. She tried that. That’s where I came into the picture, and it nearly cost her her life.

It is not yet clear where she might go when and if she leaves the hospital.

It might be a rehab center, or a nursing home, or her own home if that’s what she decides. Nobody close to Susan insists she will figure something out if she gets to go home, and that is her choice and her responsibility also.

And who am I to say she can’t figure something out?

I must be exceptionally self-aware during this process, conscious of what I say and do. I need to keep my mouth shut at times, and be careful to steer Susan to the idea of her own decisions, even if they disagree with the people she trusts.

That is the best path for her, or for anyone in her situation.

I am no longer just there as a friend, but I am a hospice volunteer, I ask her what she needs, and I listen. I don’t try to tell her to cheer up, suck it up, count her blessings, or that she will be fine.

I don’t believe in miracles, I believe in honesty.

She loves the letters she is receiving (thanks): Susan Popper, Room 309, Saratoga Hospital, 211 Church Street, Saratoga Springs, N.Y., 128166.

We talked for an hour; she had to be taken out for more tests. She is walking a bit now and looks much better. She is clear but confused, as anybody would be.

She is thinking more and more about agreeing to whatever treatment will prolong her life, and that is the choice the vast majority of Americans make under similar circumstances. I wish her peace and compassion.

When all is said and done, what else is there worth offering?

We talked for a long time about her dog, Sally.

The story of Sally is far from over.

Susan’s trusted friend Donna Nicosia had decided that Sally should be adopted by a friend and woman she knows well in Portland, Oregon. Susan said she was uncomfortable with that choice; she wants Sally to live close by so she can see her again, no matter what happens.

I know how hard Donna has worked to find Sally a home, and how excited she was about the Oregon re-homing. I also suspected Susan would be unhappy about it.

She and Donna are close and have an honest relationship, and I felt it was groundbreaking that Susan spoke up and told her friend how she feels. Good for Donna for listening.

So Donna is looking for a permanent home somewhere in the Northeast. Her e-mail is [email protected] if anyone is interested in adopting Sally. 

Susan has some big decisions to make about her life, and she admits she has not made good decisions about her health over the years.  I urged her to talk to as many people as she could, read as many articles as she could find,  and ask as many questions as she could think of.

If she chooses to have her cancer treated medically, she will be responsible for helping to figure out how she can be supported and cared for out of the hospital. It’s her life, her call. That’s not a crater I can fall into, and I told Susan that.

I appreciate Saratoga Hospital and the wonderful welcome and encouragement I have received with Zinnia there. It feels like a home for us, just as Bishop Maginn does.

I’ve decided we will join the roster of regular therapy dogs at the hospital. I’m registering her with the hospital and finishing her training there. I hope to go there with her at least once a week.

This week has worn me down, but I need to get to Bishop Maginn High School tomorrow to see the kids there, and Sue and Mike Tolan. I’ve been out of that groove for a couple of weeks, and it leaves a hole in me.

The spirit lives there and I need to take a drink.

I learn something about myself every day. This kind of work is draining in a particular way, but I also know that there is a part of it that I love. It brings me to the richness of life and teaches me about my own destiny.

At Saratoga Hospital, Zinnia is already much loved there and has brightened up the days of staff and patients.

A woman stopped me in the hallway the other day and begged me to take Zinnia to see her mother, who is dying of cancer. It took me a while to find the mother, but we did this afternoon after we visited Susan.

The room was dark; the curtain around the bed was drawn; the nurse told me she was close to dying. I walked in with Zinnia and asked her to sit down next to the bed. The woman looked over at her and started to cry. “Oh, how beautiful and sweet she looks,” she said, and I reached down and pulled Zinnia up, so her head and paws were on the bed, next to the woman.

“Oh, oh,” she said,  reaching over to pet Zinnia, who licked her hand, “what a beautiful thing to see, and now I can sleep.” And she closed her eyes. When I called to check on her condition, I learned she had passed away.

And I will think of that scene tonight, and I will sleep.