The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying

by Nina Riggs

“It’s about honoring the unknowing and the awkwardness and the mystery of dying,” he said. “It’s unsettling—and that’s okay.”

“Respice post te. Hominem te memento.”

“How are you holding up today,” says the breathing tech in the windowless room. “All things considered?” I’m not sure to which things he is referring exactly. I don’t know if he is sure either. “I’m okay,” I say. “Considering. How are you?” He says he is fair to middling. “Of course, that’s what I always say,” he says. “Because it about always fits.” When the scan is done, he says, “Bon voyage, madame,” holding open the door as the tech wheels me back into the hallway. “Hasta la vista. Ta-ta for now. Have a blessed day.”