A Time For Reflection

It didn't quite smell like death, but it was close enough.
The pallative care ward of White Rock General Hospital had to be the loneliest place on the planet around the holidays - someone's mom, dad, grandfather or grandmother, all lying silent and grim in their own tiny dark rooms, with no family there to wish them all the best. I guess it was too depressing for them.
And after visiting a man who had become a grandfather to me over the past 25 years, and hearing him tell me of the terrible pains wracking his body, seeing the IVs plugged into the few veins left that were capable of holding a needle, and smelling the sickly sweet odor of his colostomy bag, I can understand why they didn't come.
Understand it, yes. Agree with it, no.
"That's the thing about young people these days," said Harry. "They just don't seem to care about our lives, what we've done. I guess it isn't important to them."
Here was a man, who, in his 96 years, had lived through both great wars, a few smaller, less important ones, and seen the world transform before his eyes. He saw the moon landing, he remembers life without TV, he remembers learning to drive at the age of 13. I was happy to talk of these things with him in the short time I had to visit on Christmas morning, as his time on this plane grows short.
But Harry is tired of living. He told me so.
As hard as it is to hear someone you love say that, it's all part of the cycle of life.
Though his grip is still firm, and his eyes still sparkle, he is clearly fading. It's his time.
And in 70 or so years, after a hopefully full life, I hope there's someone there to talk to me when it's my time.