A number of years ago, I wrote an essay about an elderly woman, a patient of mine. After her death, I spent months cobbling our encounter into a narrative, rich with detail about how her illness had come to define her life, what she looked like, how she sounded. I was proud of the piece and prouder yet when I learned that it would be published. And yet I also felt anxious. This was her story, too. If she were still alive, I could have asked her permission. Now, I could omit details that made it more likely someone might recognize her.
