Define “better.” Here, “better” means “not as bad as yesterday” or “not as bad as when we got here” but it seldom means “all better” as in “well.” You have to know the specific points of reference to understand that the person whom you see before you is, in fact, “better.” Otherwise, you would not use that term. That term would never enter your mind for the state of the person you see in the bed.

This is what better looks like sometimes. Better is no ventilator tube down his throat, but he is deeply uncomfortable, in pain, thirsty, and cannot find the words to explain these things. He finds adjacent words and sometimes words adjacent to those words. Sometimes he finds any word at hand because it is a word. When he makes himself known, you can do nothing. You cannot give him water, only a water-soaked sponge on a stick. The nurses must limit the use of that for fear that he will drown because the ventilator tube may have damaged or confused the throat, sending water to the lungs rather than the stomach. Even the stomach might not be able to handle too much water. This is better. He does not have the ventilator in.

Better is the next day, when they have moved him from a ward room to a private room. This day he has his wits about him enough to know how much pain he is in. They cannot give him anything more than Tylenol although they have cut into his belly, removed some organs, and rearranged others. If they give him more than Tylenol, they will not be able to tell if narcotics have sent him into a fugue state or if his infection has addled him, perhaps irreversibly. He spends the day shouting out the door at anyone who passes by to please, please god please, give him some drugs, why can he not have drugs. He begs his wife, his daughter, his son, his cousin, his friend to help him die. “Do you have a gun?” he asks. “Give me a gun so I can die.” He is serious. You are afraid to give him ice chips because he might try to choke himself with them. You do, but you watch him closely. This is better. He has his wits.

Better is the next day, when he is not restrained, when one of the tubes in his nose is removed, when they have given him a tiny bit of narcotics to take the edge off the pain although he drifts about in a twilight fog.  He still has the feeding tube and they bring him jello and broth, but he has neither the will nor energy to eat. He has no will nor interest in anything. If you coax a smile from him, you feel you have won the Olympics. He is polite, as he is normally is. He says “o.k.” “O.K.” He seems to assess the situation in his head and resolve that this is what it is. Or perhaps he just says “ok” to shut everyone but the nurses up. The nurses can do things. They are not helpless in the face of his pain and despair. This is better. He is not begging to die.

Then, the next day. A plateau. The doctors keep saying “doing well” and “getting better.” You trust them. They know more about the chemistry and physiology and biology and science. They have seen more of this than you have. They are not emotionally invested, nor should they be. You get that. Their “better” carries more weight.

You wait for the next step of “better.”