I unzip his tent to find him lying sideways, twisted up under a blanket. A plate full of disgusting old cigarette butts sits next to his air mattress. There are empty cups and dirty clothes strewn about, a mess. Jeff looks like he’s seen better days.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Man, I’m sick dude,” he moans, his words slurred together.
Jeff has pancreatic cancer. He was diagnosed at least six months ago but has stopped his chemotherapy treatment. It made him feel terrible, and he doesn’t want to go back. Jeff hasn’t been eating, and he looks skinny and frail. His eyes glow like an emerald, pleading for help. He shows me how loose his jeans are. The front button sits a good 3 inches off his waist. I wonder how his pants stay up.
He rolls over and moans, “Man, I’m sick dude… I am sick.”
He places his palm on his forehead and stares at the roof of his tent, dazed. He looks like he’s about to cry. I offer to help, but he says he’s too weak to move. He believes God will… Continue Reading
