The old man at number eighty-six was dying.
Not that anyone knew that. His neighbour had known that he was sick, a while back, when he last visited. There were no known relatives and most of those that lived in the street were aware of that. The next-door neighbour thought he should call in. At the door, he elderly man reluctantly let him in. They sat in the lounge room and spoke for a while before the neighbour asked seriously how the other was doing. He admitted that the doctor hadn’t given him long. As a result of their conversation it became clear that to pass away peacefully on his own would be what he would prefer.
It was established that he didn’t need a doctor because that had all been done and there was no point. It also became clear that there was no need for a visit to the hospital, as there was nothing they could do for him now. He explained that he didn’t need any help with anything. He was up to getting out from time to time to do a little shopping. There was nothing he needed; nothing his neighbour could do for him. He thanked him for thinking of him.
When he returned to his home, he thought about what he had learnt from the visit. The man was terminally ill and dying, it was as simple as that. He felt undecided about what to do, but there was obviously nothing he could do. Nothing that the old man would want him to do. There was no simple answer, no solution. It was what it was, and he had to accept the man’s wishes to be left alone and he found that the acceptance of that, was such a surprisingly hard thing to do.