Ezoic
The doctors gave him six months. Maybe less.
“He lost his housing in July,” Nathan said. “Because he couldn’t work anymore. He was too sick. The VA was trying to get him into a hospice. But there was a waiting list. And he didn’t want to go to a hospice anyway. He said he spent too many years in places where people die. He didn’t want to die in another one.”
“So where did he go?”
“The Starlite Inn,” Nathan said. “On Versailles Road. It’s a motel. Thirty-nine dollars a night. He was paying for it with his disability check. But it wasn’t enough for every night. So some nights he slept in the bus station.”
I closed my eyes. Just for a second. Then I opened them again. I was driving.
“He was dying alone, Mom,” Nathan said. “In a motel room. With nobody. He couldn’t even get up to go to the bathroom by himself some days. He couldn’t cook. He couldn’t clean. He couldn’t change his own bandages.”
