The first words he spoke were, “I’m dying.” Said with such unfitting nonchalance that I wasn’t sure if I had even heard it. After I offered to buy him some tea he calmly asked, “Can I tell you something I truly believe?” I nodded and he said again, “I’m dying.” I tried to gauge him–what was his motive? What was his condition? His pants bore stains, his mustache spilled over his upper lip, his dirty hair was slicked back to hide his balding head, and his pupils were but pinholes. I sat with him for three hours. At first I simply listened to his story: he lived in a condo where he had filled the walls with mad scribblings about his broken DNA, tomorrow–fourteen years after his father’s death–he would come into his inheritance, the money would do him no good because the disease was killing him. In fact, nothing could do any good.

I tried to console, to find hope amidst what appeared to be insurmountable anguish. He did, after all, have health insurance. Surely the doctors could diagnose him. He was convinced the problem lie in his Mitochondrial DNA, that it was too elusive for the doctors to find, that they would only know the truth once he died. As I pressed harder for some shred of optimism, he stripped away the bastions of reason until nothing was left but his naked self-conception as a man persecuted by the universe. His disease was terminal and debilitating. Each day brought more pain than the one previous. His only goal was to be killed by the disease so the autopsy would finally reveal his condition. He was, he said, born to suffer. Nothing would change that. None of my suggestions were new to him, and none of them could pierce through his persecution-mythos.

It became clear that this man suffered some mental illness. The way he spoke of his estranged family members, the subtle mention of psychiatric wards and case workers, the broken mannerisms. He claimed to find no comfort in our long, awkward conversation, and its end brought no closure. I believe, however, that deep beneath his delusion lies a lonely and confused child. None of my words could ease his distress, because I could not dispel the myth. I only hope the simple comfort of human contact in some way calmed his spirits.