I was certain that I knew just what to expect. As a hospice volunteer I had spent countless hours with people who, in the final days and weeks of their lives, reflected on their life's work, their families and loved ones and the paths they had traveled. I had been briefed of the fact that thirty year old Juan had arrived at the suburban nursing home from the gritty streets of crime-ridden Paterson, NJ. On the way to meet him for the first time I prepared myself for his anger, frustration and self-pity.
Within minutes of our first meeting Juan told me that several years as an intravenous drug user had caught u...