The change was so subtle that it took me most of the day to discern what was different, why I felt something was off. After spending far too many months, days, weeks, hours in hospital rooms with my husband, Patrick, I was used to the rhythms and patterns of hospital life. The various doctors breezing in and out with the latest suggested treatments; the nurses and techs coming and going regularly, adjusting this piece of machinery, delivering yet another round of medication, or tending to their regular routines of taking vitals or drawing blood. But this afternoon, this somewhat quiet Sunday afternoon, I finally realized what I sensed. Every time someone came in, their question was the same: “What can we do for you?” While not uncommon for the amazingly kind staff to include my needs in their requests, today was different. They had stopped asking about what my husband needed. Oh, they still took incredible care of their patient, but no longer were they asking what they might be able to do for him. They knew, well before I figured it out, that my husband was not going to survive.