[ WP ] You 're in hospital and a stranger comes into your room and strikes up a conversation . As you are talking you realize the stranger is actually death himself .

My eyes were still red, but at least the tears had stopped. Forty minutes of listening, crying, yelling, crying, hugging, and more crying. My mother had left to go pray in the chapel, and the family was in the cafeteria. I was alone with my father. 
 
 Cancer was such a dumb disease. Too many cells? Your body was too good at repairing itself? And so we nuked the body, like some god damn Vietnam jungle napalm. Good cells and bad, carpet bombed into oblivion. In some hail-Mary hope of curing something. Dark age medicine was what it was. 
 
 A week ago my father had n't looked good, but now he did n't even look alive. Tubes and pumps. Equipment doing the work of a half-dozen organs. The painful grimaces would be a welcome change from this stasis. 
 
 And my mother. She knew he would n't want this, but he'd agreed to the medical coma because he `` Did n't want to die'' that day. But that day was 6 days ago, and she was still following that last wish. This was n't want he would want. This was n't it. 
 
 But she could n't see it. Instead we argued, every day, about what to do, what he would want, what she should do. The decision had to be hers, and she could n't make it. Hence her frequent visits to the chapel and the rectory. 
 
 `` Hi Nathan'' 
 
 I had been staring at a flyer on the wall and the voice surprised me. 
 
 `` Oh, sorry.'' The man was holding a book with gold embroidery. His face was pale and solemn. Now that I looked at him, I realized I'd seen him in the room a few times. `` Are you the priest?'' 
 
 He smiled. `` Would you like to talk?'' 
 
 I shook my head. `` I've talked enough today. I just want to sit.'' 
 
 `` Mind if I join you?'' He took the chair opposite the bed. 
 
 I ignored him and focused on the room. The smells. The machines. The chair with my mother's purse and jacket. Designer knock-off maybe. Black and gold, like his book. My gaze returned to him. He had it open and was reading it. 
 
 `` Anything good in that'good book'?'' 
 
 He look up at me. `` Well, some might say that good is relative.'' 
 
 I nodded halfheartedly, content that I had completed some social expectation and resumed staring around the room. My hand wandered over and cupped my father's. It felt so fragile. 
 
 `` Is this good, do you think?'' 
 
 `` What?'' I asked. He was looking at my father. The book was closed. 
 
 `` What the hospital and doctors are doing, do you think this is good?'' 
 
 `` This?'' I stared at my father's lifeless body. `` No, this is n't good.'' 
 
 `` They're extending his life. Is n't that good? Is n't death to be avoided or defeated?'' He spoke quietly now. 
 
 `` This is n't life. He's alive, but he is n't living.'' 
 
 `` So death would be good?'' 
 
 `` It would be better than this.'' 
 
 I thought about the family deaths. The old and the sick. Their deaths had been sad, but expected. This though, I felt robbed. Dying in your 50s? With so much to do? A grandson not yet 4? So many people who relied on you? 
 
 I sighed. The tears were welling up again. It seems I had n't quite emptied them out. 
 
 `` Get some rest Nathan. I'll take care of him.'' 
 
 `` Mmmm?'' I asked. My eyes began to slide closed. The drowsiness was a welcomed escape from the sorrow. 
 
 `` Let me do some good for him...''
