Nine years ago, near the end of my residency training, I sat opposite a patient, wondering whether he had accepted that he was dying. He was in his 60s, an artist with sinewy arms and serene eyes, someone I had come to know well over the past three years. Cancer had broken into his liver and bone marrow, robbing him of hunger and energy.

Each time I saw him, the hollows of his cheeks deepened. I wanted to tell him that he was dying, that I wanted to understand how he envisioned spending his remaining life. But he mostly spoke about his plans: a camping vacation in six months, a friend’s wedding after that.