A sick adult is an unsightly creature. Hair unkempt, dark circles. A raw red ring around the nose and that stale, stale breath. There’s no mother trailing behind him to show the world he’s taken care of.
Those he once considered friends wish him good health from a distance. And acquaintances? Work buddies? Forget it. The prospect of catching whatever turned him into a homeless zombie is not worth the small talk.
The sweet spot of the sick adult scenario is any interaction with a roommate. A sick man is despised by his roommates. Though their social graces encourage otherwise, they can’t help but resent his (weak) immune system for losing to the microbes currently multiplying in MTA’s underground petri dish.
He’s left to fend for himself. Preferably where no one can see, hear, or smell him.