He's old, not long for this world. A diagnosis of cancer after an otherwise healthy life. The doctors have told him that treatment won't be able to do anything.
He's strong, he's looked after his family, moved them to this country. He's raised a son and a daughter.
They don't have much money, the house has souvenirs and memories. It's clean, fresh fruit on the table.
When I meet him he's angry. I recognise it in his tone of voice, in his body language. He gives one word answers, offers no explanations. Taking his history is like pulling teeth, one after another.
Before we go to hospital he wants to use the toilet, he wants to change his clothes.
He calls to his grown son, shouts at him. The pyjamas, not these pyjamas, those ones, the ones over there.
He's angry, he loses his temper – more shouting at his son.
His son sighs, I can see it annoying him. His father is shouting at him, but he's not doing anything wrong. He's doing what his father wants, but it's apparent;y not good enough.
I ask the man if he want's his wife to come to the hospital with him, he tells me no, that his son will come instead.
The wife shares a look with the son as he helps his father out the house and into the ambulance.
He'll be gone soon, the father. I want to tell the son that his father doesn't hate him, that when he is gone he'll miss him and that the anger isn't really directed at him.
I want to tell him that he should remember the good times, before his father became sick.
But it's not my place.