“Thomas,” I finally whispered. “Oh my God! Thomas!”
After that day, I found reasons to visit his room during every shift.
Sometimes he checked his medication.
Sometimes I would bring him water.
Sometimes, I would simply sit next to him after I finished my chores.
Thomas told me that he had never been married.
I confessed that I hadn’t gotten married either.
We laughed at our gray hair, our knee pain, and the silly dreams we once shared.
Other times, we would sit in silence, so comfortable that the decades that separated us seemed less important.
“Are you still drinking your coffee black?” he asked one afternoon.
“Yeah.”
“I knew you would.”
There was something unusual about his serenity.
Many patients with serious illnesses were scared, angry, or overwhelmed.
Thomas seemed calm.
He behaved like someone who had been waiting a long time for something final to happen.
One morning, he asked me a question very carefully.