The walk down the hall is rather short. A quick right after the elevator and it stretches just far enough to feel uncomfortable.
There is a gentile noise about the sixth floor; it’s just quiet enough to be disconcerting.
Entering the room there is a slight tightening in the chest: breathing becomes a little shorter; eyes are cast a little farther down.
At the end of the room, closest to the window, there he sits, slowly wasting away.
The mask is on his face, starting at the bridge of his nose, ending below his chin. Slowly the blankets rise: up and down, up and down, up and down.
He opens his eyes, confused at first, searching for something familiar finaly they settle right on you. For a moment they seem bright, but that quickly fades.
Everything seems to be fading at this point.
You want to ask how he is, but that’s a bad question. Stupid even. You can see how he is (dying.)
Whatever is inside him (the cancer: say it) is eating him away. It’s only been a few days but the difference is obvious. Time is growing short.
You sit down against the radiator ledge and he asks if you’re comfortable. Of course you are (lies, comfortable lies.)
He doesn’t say much, the mask won’t let him and the strength isn’t there (it’s never coming back.)
You tell him the latest news. Perhaps he cracks a smile (perhaps he’s just moving his mouth.)
He can’t turn his head, so he looks at you through the corner of his eye. Even when you don’t speak (and he can’t) he’s looking at you.
What do you say? What can you say? (Nothing.)
So you sit.
Oddly, his wrinkles have disappeared. Or at least, the more you look at him, the more they seem to have. So you focus on that.
Focusing on that is easier than focusing on the reality in front of you (he’s dying, right there, right in front of you.)
He knows it. You know it. No one says anything.
Your mind wanders: where is your suit, what shoes do you have to wear, why is the room so warm, why does the heater blow cold air, who chose the pattern for the floor tiles.
He falls asleep and you’re relieved. Finally you can look at him. When his eyes open, you look away (no need to stare at the dying.)
Your mind wanders, thoughts spring up and tears threaten. Both are pushed away (no need to do that here.)
Finally it’s time to go. You look at him, he looks at you. Do you hug him? Can you hug him? When was the last time you did that? Maybe you should just put a hand on his leg, or arm, or something.
You do nothing (you do nothing.)
Walking out, down the hall, you do nothing.
Nothing (nothing.)
Update: In a sad, but inevitable, turn the man whom I wrote about visiting this weekend — my grandfather — died this evening.
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