Snapshot

Five pm … you are the last consult, the end of a busy Friday of a busy week …

I review your chart … heart failure, diabetes, ACE inhibitors (if you're going to take an inhibitor, might as well be an ace!).

You live in a private room at the end of the hall … you are sitting upright on the edge of your bed, in a chocolate brown bathrobe … your blue denim underwear is down around your knees … you seem to be staring at them …

The nurse stands you up and offers to help with your shorts … “Should we pull them up or down?” she says good naturedly. You yank them up, with an ‚I can still do that!' look.

Your face is unshaven; your thick white eyebrows gather in the middle, owl-like. Our gazes meet. I see defeat, with hints of self-respect and humour.

You sit back down, and with a wave of a hand, invite me to do likewise. I sit in your wheelchair, facing you. The late afternoon sun is blazing behind. I position my head so you are between me and the sun. We begin to talk. Each time you move your head, I am blinded by the sun, so each time I reposition mine. I can only see you when you block the light.

“I'm just a crazy old man waiting to die.”

We talk some more.

On your bedside table, beside the plastic pitcher of ice water, is a shiny black iPod and speakers. I congratulate you on having such a slick sound system.

“I can't get it to work,” you say.