The First Time I Learned About “DNR”

“One of the last times I held my grandma’s hands: I exited the elevator onto the hospital floor labeled Palliative Care. Walking into the unit, I noticed my mother speaking to the oncologist. Down the bouquet-lined hallway, a somber reality waited behind Grandma’s closed door. When I entered, I saw loose wires snaking in all directions to and from her limbs, chest and neck. On her wrist, now rail-thin, was a white band with the letters ‘DNR.’ At fifteen years old, I knew little about end-of-life care. Yet, soon after Grandma’s death, I came to understand it as supporting a comfortable, meaningful death.”