Still Here

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
—Henry David Thoreau

I arrived at 5:30.
Martha showed me how to give Mr. Ferrington water.
Squirt it to the side. About 7 milliliters total, 1–3 ml at a time. He’ll raise his hands when he’s done. He blinks to say yes.

Martha and Dave said I could read outside.
Mr. Ferrington has two meals a day—breakfast and dinner. Dinner is usually around 7:00.

I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I entered his room.
His mouth was slack, all the teeth gone. I had never seen someone without their teeth before.
The sight startled me.

His body, his gummy mouth—he reminded me of a baby.
But longer. Lankier.
Void of meaty flesh. Void of vitality.
No promise of a future.
Only a whisper of what once was.

At first I ask if he wants me to exercise his arm.
He extends it slowly, his left. We move together.
I rub the back of his neck like Martha showed me, but he doesn’t close his eyes in pleasure the way he did with her.
I ask if he wants me to stop.
He blinks.
So I stop.

I try to scoot the wheelchair beside his bed, unsure if he’s drifting back to sleep.
Martha tells me he’s still very much aware—just trapped in a body that no longer works.

He had a stroke.
He’s been with his daughter for two years.

I sit beside him and wonder—does he mind that I’m Asian?
Maybe he doesn’t care for Asians.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
I don’t know.

This isn’t what I expected.
I thought volunteering here would inspire gratitude. Motivate me to live fully.
Instead, I feel heavy.
Muted.

Sad.
Numb.

And quietly afraid.

I start wondering what it will be like when my time comes.
Will I be trapped in a failing body with a clear mind?
Or will I lose my mind first—forget my children, my name, the scent of home?

Which is worse?

Will I be afraid when death comes close enough to breathe beside me?

I’ve always had a strange reverence for death.
Maybe because I learned early that it doesn’t wait for permission.
It can come for anyone. Anytime.

And yet—I haven’t really been living.

I’m just sitting here.

I miss my mom.

I remember being seventeen.
I had this epiphany about death: that it was the ultimate answer.
There was a strange sense of relief in knowing that one day, I would understand.
The mystery would unfold, and I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.

It wasn’t morbid.
It felt… clarifying.
Like touching something vast and still.

And now, sitting beside a man at the end of his life,
I find myself less certain.
Not about death—
but about everything I’ve yet to live.

Maybe this is what Thoreau meant.
Not the drama of despair,
but the hush of an unlived life—
the way it slips beneath the skin,
sits at the bedside,
and lingers there,
just beneath the breath.