I’m going to be at this hospital for at least 24 hours straight, and my aunts are bringing me food.
I took it to the family room of the palliative care department and started eating. One patient in a wheelchair was there. She was poking listlessly at a slice of sad-looking pizza.
“You have chicken,” she said wistfully, looking into my plate.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“It looks nice,” said the patient. “Probably homemade?”
“Yes,” I said, almost choking with embarrassment.
“I’m so happy for you,” said the terminal patient morosely.
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