Early morning in the hospital, I got paged.   Old man on comfort care just “expired.”  Myeloma in his blood and blood in his brain.  I put my whitecoat on and do my thing.  White is such an odd color for this kind of thing.

His glassy eyes are open for the first time that week.  Staring  at the clock, mouth agape as if perpetually surprised at the final tick.  Skin like ashy sienna, an old-fashioned photograph in a modern day setting that fits but doesn’t fit, like how my writing slips into past and present tense sometimes.  I’m surprised and relieved that there’s no family there; I hate interrupting a weeping crowd.  There’s child-like letters on his marker board:

“Tomorrow is my grandpa’s birthday (today).  Please take good care of him.  If you knew him, you would like him a lot.”

On the phone, the son hesitates, “… I was expecting this sooner.”

A different old man with a different cancer is sitting in a chair when I make my rounds to his room.  The snowy white birds nest under his nose  hides the withering tree he has become.

“I’ve got so many things to do.  I’m a song writer,” he tells me for the first time this week, “I’ve got so many songs to write.”  I understand viscerally.

Rather than upbeat and glib, I can only say,

“… Keep … fighting.”  He looks up and nods.

“I have to take my grandsons places.”  I think about my kids.

“I got lucky.”

“Lucky??”

“Yeah, my third marriage,” his eyes swell up with pride and I am happy we are both lucky in that way.  I actually choke up… audibly.  I have to leave.  He understands.  He sees.

Not enough sleep this week.   That always does it.  I hate the mushy stuff.

Last is a sunny old man undimmed by his cancer.  I seem to have more oncology patients than usual this week.  ‘Tis the season, all of them.  Dressed up in plain clothes on the outside.  Messed up with lung cancer on the inside.

“Well good news.  How do you feel about going home?” I smile big.

“I am ready to get out there and live.”

“Great.  Did you walk around a bit yesterday?”

“I walked the halls and talked to a lot of people.  Gonna miss some of them, but a lot of these people gotta change the way they think,” he tells,

“People think people owe them something.  But they don’t.  God don’t like ugly.”

I nod thoughtfully.

“Anyways, nice to meet you.  I appreciate the good work you do.  Hope I don’t see you again.”

I know how he means it and how he doesn’t mean it.  But there’s always a third meaning I morbidly pick up on.

I crash into bed earlier than Amy that night.  At five in the morning, I’m awakened by a thud on my skull.  My sleeping boy’s hard head rests next to mine.  Butterfly eyelashes levitate above his rosy cheeks.  I stare for some time.