Nathan was fifty-nine, though illness had made him look older. His face was thin, his eyes were alert, and his patience seemed to have disappeared long before his health did.
He disliked almost everything.
He complained about the weak coffee, the lumpy pillows, the curtains, the daytime television programs, and the cheerful tone nurses used when asking about his pain.
Most of all, he hated being called brave.
“I’m not brave,” he told one nurse. “I’m simply not dead yet.”
Most patients had family photographs on their bedside tables. Flowers arrived with handwritten cards. Children and grandchildren came carrying homemade meals, clean clothes, and stories from home.
Nathan had none of those things.
There was one worn leather bag beside his bed and no emergency contact listed in his file.
During my second shift, I crossed the street and bought him coffee from a small café. When I handed it to him, he took a cautious sip.
“You remembered the cream.”
“You complained about the hospice coffee for twenty minutes.”
“Complaining doesn’t mean anyone listens.”
“It does when the person complaining is impossible to ignore.”
For a moment, he simply stared at me.
Then one corner of his mouth lifted.
It was the first time I saw him smile.
Several days later, the volunteer coordinator stopped me in the hallway.
“Nathan asked whether you could visit him.”
