WHAT DO YOU SAY TO A DYING MAN?

When I was seventeen, I went to Walmart at nearly midnight for the particular reason of avoiding anyone I might know. I can’t stand small talk. It always feels like I never know the right thing to say, and it’s uncomfortable for me and the person I’m talking to. This trip to Walmart was going to be a run-in and run-out kind of trip; I knew exactly what I wanted and where it was. My mom’s birthday was coming up and she wanted The Spanish Princess on DVD.

I was standing in line behind a man at the register, DVD gripped in hand, when he turned around and smiled at me. Of course, I smiled back because that’s what you’re expected to do. He was an older gentleman, with kind eyes and gray hair that he kept hidden by a baseball cap. I watched him adjust the bag of dog food in his hands before he said to me, “I have three months left to live.”

I remember the way my heart skipped a beat and the anxiety that hit my chest like a wooden bat, but I don’t remember my response. I know I told him I was sorry and I muttered something to him about God and trusting Him, but all I could wonder was what this man’s life was like that made him feel the need to tell a stranger—a high schooler, no less—about the things that must be weighing on his mind.

I allowed him to talk, just offering a listening ear. It was clear that was all he wanted, anyway. He told me about the doctors and the tests, and how he was told that there was nothing more they could do. He told me about all his dogs at home, and how he liked to dye them different colors. His favorite one was a pink pit-bull. He told me he was worried about where they would end up after he was gone.

When it was his turn at the register, he repeated his story for the cashier. I was left alone with my thoughts. I worry I didn’t say the right thing, didn’t react in the right way, or didn’t look like I cared enough. I thought about his family.

I ended up leaving Walmart empty-handed. Apparently, you have to be eighteen to purchase a not-rated movie.

The car ride home was silent. It felt almost disrespectful to blast music after my encounter. I realized I was mourning a stranger that wasn’t dead, but if I didn’t do it, would anyone else?