Taken From

Day One:

One of the longest, drawn-out, awkward days of my life, I sat with a man dying and trying to die a little sooner.
Not even those who judged him could blame him. They knew they were cowards.
Bothered with what not to say, I tensely sat slightly averted from view. I didn’t want him to feel stalked or, worse, judged. I shuttered my eyes only in response to his shifts in the bed when it seemed natural to justify my presence. My intensely still stature forgave no diversion to the wall, to the door, to the clock. I used the light of day as reference. Creaks in my neck and shoulders surpassed my will to rearrange myself for comfort. Instead, I endured the stiff silence, honed in on the hum of the air conditioner, and repeated the Lord’s Prayer in my head (as I sometimes do to pass the time).
Day Two:
Our very distant logical spheres collided the next day, but pleasantly. We attempted more than a common glance of welcome and the modest and occasional clearing of throats. Mid-afternoon, a doctor appeared (finally). Instead of answering questions, though, or even speaking with compassion, this doctor stormed in and quickly out and left us both with much to be desired.
If nothing else, though, her tactless way broke the ice. And we talked. Well, he talked. I nodded, confirming and validating every sneering word about the doctor.

          She can’t just do that. I mean she can’t just do that.

          Yah, no, I agree.

 
        I don’t need this. I don’t need to be talked to that way. Where I come from doctors, professionals, they don’t swear like that.  She’s supposed to be a doctor?

        No kidding. That was extremely uncalled for.

And really it was. I understood her approach but it was clearly ineffective. Nothing can change the mind of the dying. Maybe God, or Love, but that is all. When you are dying and you’ve been dying for so long, living is just frivolous.
From there, we talked about that: Death. Life. God. Love. Living meant dying slowly. God meant there was hope and he couldn’t bare that thought. Love seemed to coexist with life, something he hadn’t felt in a while. He was lonely, I knew that. And so while on the first day I felt purposeless, the second day I found my reason: He just needed someone to be there. He needed to not be lonely as he was dying. And I enjoyed it from that point on. I think he enjoyed it too. I think it had been a long time since he’d been in the same room with anyone for twelve hours.
I was careful not to give him hope. Any hint of it would be a lie and one he’d catch. Instead I gave him love because he’d been dying for so long, he’d probably really stopped thinking about himself and the things he needed. Everyone needs the loving and acceptance of others, if only from one.
In our conversations that day, I learned a lot about him. His favorite food is blueberries and it’s the only thing he could keep down for the longest time. He always wanted to go to King Island. And tomorrow was his birthday.
Day Three:
I wasn’t working the next day but I came anyway. I came with blueberries and a book about King Island. He was sleeping and I told the girl who had replaced me to make sure everyone knew it was his birthday. I don’t know whatever happened to him after that. But I prayed a lot for him.
I never forgot him for some reason. I guess I just had so much love for someone who didn’t have anyone, especially someone who was dying. He had not much more than a disease, if a self at all. It had eaten so much more of him than flesh and bone. Those things die slow. A heart and a will die quick. The best feed for this is love.