"Mr. Sharpsteen, there is a blind man here to see you."

And everyone sees him but me. The spring semester had begun, and my nephew had just been born. As I walk the hospital corridor, I recall a conversation I had with my grandfather a week ago. “This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not be false to any man. Farewell; my blessing season this in thee!” My grandfather finished quoting from his favorite play, smiling as though he had never said it before. As we did daily, my grandfather and I spoke for several hours about school and story ideas I had in mind. It always seemed as though he spent the day before preparing what he would say. He often dispensed his wisdom liberally, speaking with a slight grin.

As I enter the colorful room, I can not see that slight grin as his glossy eyes turn to me, nor can I see his chest heave. Somehow, I also fail to notice the needle injecting its morphine into his withered veins to end his discomfort. As he slips into a barely conscious state, his presence becomes even more apparent than ever.

And I feel it. I feel as if I can not lift my arms to feed myself. I can not speak more than three words at a time. All I can do is deliver a lethargic smile as they stand around. A familiar voice whispers in my ear, “Open your eyes, everyone is here.” As I lift my eyelids and focus, I begin to make out the image of a baby. “This is your great grand-son.” As sedated as I am, I am still awake enough to appreciate the fact that there are four generations in the room. The baby lets out a slight whimper. His voice makes me cry and I imagine him growing up, going to college and perhaps becoming an engineer. I want to stay awake, but I can’t. It’s not that I’m not trying. The mind and body are just two separate things now, you see? The mind just waits, while the body slowly gives up.

And everyone sees him but me. As a subtle beep erupts into a terrifying siren, a nurse removes his oxygen mask and I do not see his smile: the hallmark of his wisdom; an identity, more so than his name.

I feel the imprint of the mask pressed into his limp face. My mouth slowly falls open, in an attempt at an un-finished goodbye. I stand in the room as it fills with people barely there and a man who is not. Amid the heartache I become the patient, and I feel emotions to the degree that I am confused as to whether or not I am also another.