Bronson and I get a call for a “sick” in a third-floor apartment on Fifth Avenue in Sunset Park. En route, we drive past one edge of Greenwood Cemetery.

“I’ve always wanted to visit,” I say, looking at the stone gargoyles.

“Me too,” Bronson says. “So many places to see in New York that you never do if you’re from here.”

I sigh. “I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty.”

“I’ve never been to the top of the Empire State Building.” He pauses. “I’ve been to the top of the Twin Towers, though.”

“Past tense,” I correct him. “You should say I’d.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “That just doesn’t make sense.”

I sigh again and gaze at a passing mausoleum. “No. It doesn’t.”

We leave the cemetery and drive through some side streets, where a few early gingko trees are already starting to drop their stinky berries. We arrive at the address: an unkempt-looking apartment building, cans overflowing with garbage, the lobby dirty. Inside, the paint is peeling. We walk up the stairs, knock on the apartment door, and are met by a polite, well-dressed woman who lets us into her apartment, which is neat and tidy in contrast to the rest of the building.

“What’s going on?” Bronson asks.

She points to the back bedroom.”My father is very sick. Diarrhea for two days. I think he’s dehydrated.” She leads us into the bedroom and I see her father, a Hispanic male about 65 years old, lying in a clean bed. Very thin, he’s wearing adult diapers and has a PEG tube, which is a feeding tube placed directly into the stomach through the abdominal wall, for long-term usage. His eyes are closed.

“Medical history?” I ask.

The daughter tells us he has terminal pancreatic cancer, that he had a devastating stroke six months ago that has left him unable to talk or care for himself, and that he has a history of seizures. I take another look at the patient. Then I pull Bronson aside. “You remember this guy?”

Bronson takes another look. “About a year ago, a seizure.”

I mention this to his daughter. She says that he was first diagnosed with cancer when he was in the hospital for that seizure. At that time, I remember he weighed about 180 pounds; I was unable to lift him and paramedics backed us up and helped remove him to Lutheran Hospital. En route, he had talked about the Mets and how disappointed he was that they had missed the playoffs.

“What happened in the year since then?” I ask the daughter.

She tells us that his life deteriorated rapidly after being diagnosed with cancer, then dramatically after the debilitating stroke six months ago.The difference in his condition is profound. Bronson and I carefully remove him to the ambulance, slowly going down the three flights of stairs. He’s easy to lift this time, weighing only about 100 pounds, if that. We bring him back to Lutheran. His condition is poor and his prognosis is probably worse. Bronson remarks that the man will probably not leave the hospital — and how happy he’d be that the Mets are playing well.

We get back inside the ambulance, drive to Brooklyn Heights, get lunch, drive to the Promenade, and look at the skyline. I chew, swallow. “I once saw a poster from the 1950s showing a man sitting on one of these benches, looking at the skyline. Without the Twin Towers, of course.” I look at Manhattan. “It’s just like 50 years ago.”

Bronson takes a sip of coffee, a bite of sandwich. “Boy, that guy really deteriorated, didn’t he?”

I nod, and then do some mental math. “Five months from now, you’re going to have a brand new baby.”

It sounds like we’re having disjointed conversations, but really they’re running in the same direction, and we both know it.

Bronson puts down his food, stares at the skyline, and remarks how short life is. “You never know when your life is going to change dramatically,” he says.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician who works on an ambulance in Brooklyn. This column details her observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.