My Speech for World AIDS Day 12/01/07

Hello, my name is Claudine and I am a volunteer at an AIDS hospice and despite being an AIDS Hospice it is filled with love and joy. Yes JOY!! Sadness and loss is a given, but the hospice is not defined by it’s losses, but rather illuminated by the dedication and quiet strength of all the staff and volunteers who give so willingly and care so deeply for all it’s residents.

The residents always tell us to never forget them……We should never forget. So, with the encouragement of my husband I started a blog, a space where their life and death can be remembered and memorialized.

I’ve put together a short compilation of various postings that I would like to read.

So you too will never forget.


“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” Psalm 23, my grandmother’s prayer. The prayer that was read at her funeral, whispered at her gravesite. The prayer I read to him as he lay dying. I stand by his bed watching him fight for a life that’s already gone and all I can think is “please let go, stop fighting.” He was so thin; I had never seen another human being so thin. His ribs jutted through his hospital gown. His hands, skeletal, every bone outlined. He was wasting from AIDS. It is a terrible thing to watch, but he endured it with more dignity and strength then I thought possible. His courage separated him. His warmth and kindness made him a favorite to all of us in the early days, the days when he could still talk and laugh and joke. When I would stop by his room just to hear his pleasant voice, and no matter how small the task I did for him, his gratitude always showed in his eyes.

Now I watch him clinging so hard, fighting for each breath. His death rattle echoing in the hall. I stand by his bed until my skin screams. I ALMOST run, but his terror filled eyes open and meet mine. They can barely focus, but I know he sees me and I see how scared he is. For some reason that steadies me, I know I can be there for him, I know I can help him not be so scared. I sit by his bed and hold his hand as firmly as I can without causing him pain. I want him to know that someone is beside him. I want him to know that he’s not alone.

“You don’t have to fight so hard anymore.” Let go, just let go.” I whisper in his ear before leaving. Hoping that I get a chance to see him alive again and praying that I don’t.


2 months later

The day started with Ms. but unlike last week when she was giving me a run for my money, today she was barely alive. “Actively dying” it’s called. Last week I was chasing her around her room trying to get her dressed. This week she wasn’t even able to suck water through a straw. Barely breathing, so small and frail in her bed; face drawn, eyes rolled back. It amazes me every time how rapid the decline can be.

Her family had been called and they crowded into her room, crying and writing Bible verses on paper for her, stepping outside on the patio to smoke, drinking coffee, and hoping for the best. There’s that word again “hope?” I’m not sure how to even begin to address “hope” as it pertains to the patients at the hospice. My HOPE is that they’re not so scared, that they find some kind of peace, and that they don’t die alone.

The day was ending for me, almost time to go home. I went to Ms's room before I left to say goodbye, I wasn’t sure if she would still be alive the next time I came to the house and I wanted to sit with her for a few moments. Her family had already left, all of them gone, as quickly as they had arrived. Standing outside her door I heard someone singing softly. I walked in and a volunteer was holding her hand singing from a hymn book. I sat down, closed my eyes and listened. It was the most peaceful I had felt in a long time.

Minutes later, Bizzle, another volunteer, joined us and with tears in our eyes we said our goodbyes singing long forgotten hymns to this strong, feisty, woman who had challenged us in the best of ways.


The hardest part is the residents that you don’t get a chance to know, the ones who come already at death’s door, who barely make it through the day and succumb to the “dying of the light.” The ones you take care of for that shift, and you know that you will never see again. They’re the ones who sneak up on you, the ones who haunt you. Their faces stay, long after their names start to fade from the list in your mind. The list of the people you knew and cared for at the hospice that you carry with you. I think everyone there has a list, some longer then others

Like this amazing nurse and shift leader who been at the hospice for 11 years. Who each week flies back and forth from his home to the hospice to work back to back 12 hour shifts because he believes it's worth it. According to him, the hospice is one of the best places to work because you feel your impact. Everyone there is there because they want to be, volunteers and staff. He believes the mix of volunteers add to the hospice, “makes it better.” he says, not only for the residents, but for the staff as well. The blending of so many different personalities creates a unique environment that makes the hospice stand out. He enjoys the juggling act of working with various volunteers because it also allows him to see the good in people. Not all professions allow you to see the great things that people have to offer at no benefit to themselves.


Finally I would like to leave you with one last image from my early days when I first began volunteering. A resident I cared for that I will never forget, even though I barely knew him.

I moved him on his side and held him. I washed his arms, legs, chest, skipping over the bandaged sores that checkered his body like coordinates on an unreadable map. I didn’t know him. He was a new resident and wasn’t expected to last long. He was the first man I’d ever washed, and he was a mess of scars and holes. He smelled like an infected open wound. I puked in my mouth, swallowed and kept washing. I cleaned the thick white paste from his cracked lips and beard off his swollen face. I was wet with sweat and shaking, and he never opened his eyes. His moans told me when I pressed too hard or repositioned his body too quickly. Finally, when it was all done, when he was all clean, in a new hospital gown, with fresh sheets on the bed, he opened his eyes and he looked right at me. I held his vacant gaze for a second and then looked away and bolted from the room.

The next morning he was dead. I hope he knew that a scared girl, who had never washed a grown man before, as tenderly as she could, cleaned every part of him as if he was her brother, father, husband, son.

Thank You