Umana

I can talk to Umana about everything.

“Death? Yes, what would you like to know, doctor? Am I afraid? Am I religious? God? Doctors? Words heal, doctor. What more would you like to know?”

“I can barely see. The prednisone has worn out my eyes. I raise my arms and I get short of breath. The oxygen hose irritates my nose, but enough about me—how are you? Really, how are you? You help me so much, you really do. I like a doctor to whom I can talk. How is your practice? What do you think about health care reform?”

His paintings and sculptures clutter every room of his house. This is no house call, it's a “museum call.” Looking around the room, I think about all the silica dust he has inhaled over the years. The stuff of his creation, the stuff of his demise. Books everywhere.

“Books make us interesting people, doctor. Philosophy, history, literature—I read a lot …