Tuesdays at the Nursing Home- Stage Notes

Bertha is dying. Full-on, Hospice dying or as she calls it, "Transitioning."
“Whenever I call one of my relatives to tell them I got lung cancer, they want to know what stage am I in.” She shakes her head softly and waits  for the small, portable tank at her side to pump enough super-oxygenated air into her lungs to make another sentence. “Finally, I got so sick of it, when the next one asked I said, ‘What stage am I in? Why, all the world’s a stage, honey. We’re all just a playin’ on it!'” 
She chuckles at her own joke, then lifts her tiny, bird bone shoulders in an understanding shrug. “I shouldn't a done that. They only want to know so they can plan when to take off work to come to my funeral, that’s all.  And I can't tell them that answer. Nobody can. All I know is, it’s not time yet.”