Life

He was only 52 years old. He lay in bed all day with his curled-up mustache, short buzzed hair, and long, skinny legs. I walked into his room, saw that his teeth were a little pink, and remembered that they had served Jell-O at dinner. So I asked him how he liked the Jell-O that day. “What Jell-O?” he asked. Oh yeah. He had a small-bowel obstruction; there was no eating Jell-O for Mr. D. In fact, he had a platelet count of 52 000, and the pink I saw was bleeding from his gums that was staining his teeth.

I would visit Mr. D everyday and, eventually, became close to a man who was dying all alone …