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I pull up to my patient's house and I am greeted by his wife as I get out of the truck. She likes to watch for my truck when I come, so she sits on the front porch. She is happy to see me and she tells me how glad she is that I am there. Her eyes light up and she smiles. She tells me he's been resting all day so he will be able to sit up and spend some time with me. She tells me that he's been looking forward to my visit. When I walk through the front door, he comes stumbling awkwardly down the steps. When he sees me his eyes light up even brighter than hers and he opens his arms for a hug. I ask him how he's doing and he tells me he feels good, he's been feeling so good for the last couple of days he's convinced he's getting better.

My heart begins to ache, because we all know he's not getting better. It's unspoken, but it's there and both of their eyes go dim.

"I better go," she says. She says she is running late and she wants to get a good seat. She tells us goodbye and she's out the door. This is her time to escape for a while. For a few hours, she can be just anybody and not the woman whose husband is dying.

I sit down across from him at the kitchen table and he tells me that he's had a good life. He smiles when he says it and the look on his face suggests he is miles away. He tells me about when he was a boy and then moves on to his travels, the people he's met, and the things he's seen in his life. Suddenly his eyes are sad and he tells me that he watched two of his children die. He gives me some details. I have to look away for a moment and I suck in my breath. He is silent and I can almost see everything he isn't saying all over his face. I can feel the sadness as it hangs in the air between us and it's almost too much.

"Let's change the subject," he says. So we do.

He says a few things that surprise me and I feel a little shocked at such confessions. I feel another urge to look away, but I don't. I just listen and I don't judge. It's not my place to judge.

I nod my head and look him in the eyes.

"Tell me more," I say.

I listen as he talks and I don't have to say much. I don't have to speak at all. He's not interested in what I have to say, anyway. This isn't about me. I give him my undivided attention and I let him go on about whatever is on his mind. He weaves in and out of so many stories that I feel like I've been on a journey with him.

He finishes another story and sucks in his breath and lets it out slowly. I am amazed at everything he's told me.

He

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