At Schiavo's Hospice, a Return to Routine

A new patient has moved into Schiavo's room but is unaware she is occupying a space of such high drama. The idea is to move forward. Beneath the surface, however, the aftereffects remain.

To spend one full day at Woodside is to witness the inexorable routines of death. All that seemed extraordinary in March -- feeding tubes, last rites and parents unable to let go -- is again unremarkable.

The Cycle Begins

This 24-hour period begins like most others, though it is Young, dragging on his first Kool of the day, who clarifies what Woodside's version of normal is: "Our minutes seem like hours."

Young has entrusted his son to a unique form of modern health care. The purpose of hospice is to provide end-of-life care, traditionally defined as the final six months of life. The goal is support and pain relief, or palliative care -- not cures.

Shortly before 9 a.m., Dr. Theresa Buck begins rounds on Magnolia, where the most severe cases reside. Entering Room 41, she is greeted by Debra's mother, Corrine Saviano.

"She's still not eating," she tells Buck. "But she is a lot calmer."

With her short-cropped, dark hair and involuntary body movement, Debra Saviano resembles the infamous video of Woodside's most famous patient.

"We'll draw some blood today," Buck says, stroking Debra's hair.

From the bed comes a sound that is both guttural moan and ferocious yell. Tom Saviano's body tenses, fists clench. He turns away.

"We lost our youngest three years ago," he says. It was Debra and Corrine who cared for Dorine after her leukemia was diagnosed. "That's why this is so brutal."

Still, Saviano sees Woodside as a way station, not the end of the line. "We brought her here to clean her up," he says. If Buck can treat Debra's infection, she can go back to the Moffit Cancer Center in Tampa for more chemotherapy.

In the hall, without prompting, Buck answers the impolite questions not asked inside Room 41.