David Solomon lay in bed, a sheet draped over his legs.

His darkened bedroom was silent, except for the ticking of a clock on the wall. A box of tissues sat on a bedside table; a Hebrew-and-English siddur, or prayer book, rested on his lap.

The cancer that the 70-year-old cosmetics merchant had held at bay for 12 years was no longer responding to chemo. His breathing was labored, and his morphine-addled gaze wandered. It took all his effort to focus on the white-jacketed medical student who stood next to him.

"Even though we're done treating your lymphoma, we're still here to help," the student said, gently.

"I want to talk about hospice," Solomon croaked.

He had signed paperwork urging doctors to withhold interventions such as a feeding tube during his final weeks and thought he wanted to die here, at home. At the same time, he worried how his decision would affect his family.

"Do I want my family to walk into this room and the last memories be saying goodbye to me?" he asked.

The room fell quiet again. The medical student was still. Two of his classmates, in chairs nearby, dabbed their eyes. One reached past Solomon, grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.

"Time out!" their instructor shouted.

The patient sat up in his bed, pulled a canary-yellow yarmulke off his head and smiled.

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Medical school gig a healthy challenge for actors