I’ve been spending a lot of time at the hospital lately visiting a friend. It’s never a good experience. Hospitals force you to see things you’d rather ignore - truths we usually spend our lives running away from.
Maybe it was the heavy black coffee I’d downed a couple of hours earlier, but coupled with my ADHD, I couldn't sit still. I was restless. While I waited for visiting hours to open, I was pacing the hallway - front to back, back to front - staring at my phone just to give my mind something to do.
On one of my laps, I passed a bright red donation bin shaped like a big funnel. You know the kind, where you drop a coin and watch it spin until it disappears into the bottom. A small family was gathered around it. There was a man in a wheelchair, his son standing behind him, and a grandson who was trying to climb on top of the red funnel. His dad kept pulling him back. "Come on, get down from there," he’d mutter. He just sounded tired.
I didn't stop. I kept my pace, weaving past them toward the front hallway. I eventually stopped at a large display on the wall - a list of donors who had given money to the hospital. I stood there scanning the names just to pass the seconds.
I realized the man in the wheelchair was now parked right there beside me, near the washroom. The son must have taken the kid inside, leaving the grandfather alone for a minute.
Our eyes locked. I figured I’d strike up some usual Canadian small talk. I let a smile hit my face, and he met it with his own. Behind his glasses, he looked like he was in his 60s.
"Hey, how's it going?" I asked.
"Not too bad, man. How are you?" he said. He sounded light.
"Weather’s a bit cold today... can’t complain, though. Could be worse, eh?"
"How about you? Whatchu got going on?" I asked, expecting a light response.
He gave a soft chuckle. "You know... anytime you're in the hospital for this long, it’s never for a good reason."
I looked at him, dropping the small talk. "Come on, what’s going on?"
"I have just been diagnosed with a Stage 4 brain cancer," he said. He didn't even flinch. "I mean, it could have been worse, eh?"
While he was talking, I noticed his head was half-shaven - bare and pale on one side. Then my eyes drifted down and I saw a transparent tube coming out from his shorts.
I felt that familiar pang of sympathy. "Oh man, I'm so sorry. Hopefully you get better soon, hey?" I said it because I didn't know what else to say.
He didn't hesitate. "Oh, there's no getting better. That’s the end."
It hit me like a physical jolt. I’m used to people fighting or crying, but he wasn't looking for a lifeline. He was just... done. And he was okay with it.
"So, what's the plan?" I asked, trying to meet him at his pace. "Are you going into hospice, or just taking it as it comes?"
"I've already contacted them," he said. "They’re going to start the injections in a few days. I’m just using this time to see everyone. I've lived a pretty decent life man."
Just then, the son and grandson rounded the corner. The washroom break was over. It was time for them to go.
"Hopefully you have a good one, man," I said, nodding as they started to move off.
I stood there by the donor wall, watching a stranger roll away toward the end of his life. He wasn't afraid. You don't wake up and expect to meet someone who’s about to leave the earth, but there he was. He had counted his fate and decided that sitting in a hallway with his grandson was a decent way to spend his last weeks.
There’s something freeing about that. We spend so much time being afraid of the end, but here was a guy who knew exactly when his moment was coming and was completely chill about the exit. It makes you realize that maybe the best way to go isn't a surprise - it's just being settled with the life you lived.