The Hummingbird by Stephen P. Kiernan

deal.” The Professor bent forward, his face inches from the pink blossoms. He took a noisy sniff. “For now, tell me this: What goes last?”
    “What do you mean?”
    He blew on the petals, which fluttered from his breath. I thought, what ideal circumstances for this conversation. When it is time to hear some of life’s hardest news, who would not want his face surrounded by flowers?
    “At present, I am enjoying a floral scent. My sense of smell and my appreciation of it prove that I remain a sentient being. At some point I will cease to be sentient. What will be the last part of Barclay Reed to go?”
    “Oh, I see. The ears go last. Research indicates that hearing functions till the very end. Which creates an important opportunity, actually. If there is something you’d like to be hearing, a favorite piece of music, or—”
    “Ha.” He sat back. “I know precisely what I would like to hear at the end.”
    “What is it? I can make sure that happens for you.”
    He scoffed. “Impossible.”
    “It’s not, though. I’ve done that many times. Especially with music.”
    “I said it is impossible.”
    I knew better than to push. Another day.
    Meanwhile the Professor ran his hands up and down the chair arms. “How long will all of this take?”
    I dug my thumbnail into the bench’s metal scrollwork. “It’s hard to predict.”
    “Nurse Birch, you are weakest when you are evasive.”
    “I’m not evading anything. Each person is different.”
    “Your best estimate, then.”
    “Anywhere from four weeks to ten.”
    “What? The oncologist told me six months at a minimum.”
    “Oncologists know lots of things that I don’t,” I said. “But they are notoriously over-optimistic. Maybe he wanted to give you hope.”
    “Hope?” The Professor sneered. “To a dying man, hope is a cruel lie.”
    “No sir,” I said. “There are many kinds of hope. You can hope to live longer. You can hope to complete unfinished business, professional or financial. Or spiritual.”
    His frown was instantaneous. “Oh please.”
    “Well,” I persisted. “You can hope to minimize your suffering.”
    “You keep bringing that up,” he said, leaning into the azaleas again. “Why?”
    “I want you to consider preemptive analgesia.”
    “Continue.”
    “If a nerve gets energized, it takes more medicine to quiet it. But if you act before the problem starts, it requires less dosage. You can still function.”
    Now his face was immersed, petals against his newly smooth cheeks. “At this point in my life, I do not desire to become addicted to anything.”
    “Addiction? I’m describing how to avoid suffering. Last night—”
    “Enough, Nurse Birch.” He sat back, fingers still holding a blossom. “Apart from evangelizing on doping me, this conversation has been illuminating.”
    “Is that how you would describe it?”
    “Is any question more fundamental than what the extent of our existence will be? Now I know: four to ten weeks. If you are in error, we may stipulate that it is not a matter of four to ten years, or four to ten months.”
    “I would like to help you keep that time as fulfilling as possible.”
    “What makes you think my life was fulfilling before I became ill?”
    I pointed. “The flowers in your hand.”
    The Professor jerked back as if the plant had stung him. He drew himself upright, wheelchair seat creaking. “Thank you for bringing me here. Now”—he waved a hand at the front door—“I don’t want to miss the news.”
    BARCLAY REED DID FINE for most of the day, but at about four he started shivering. I turned off his AC, piled blankets on the bed, and brought him warm tea. But he shook in every limb. I placed a hand on his forehead and there was no fever. He had just taken a chill.
    Melissa arrived, eager as ever. But when I went into his room to say good-bye, he looked miserable.
    “Professor Reed,” I said. “I don’t want to leave you in this condition.”
    “Come, Nurse Birch.