She was afflicted, born with cursed blood.
Sultry summers, pomegranate juice dripping from our chins, staining our shirts, littering the curb, as we sat and spat out the sucked from seeds.
Sticky fingers intertwined, we planed or futures, always together. I breathed her breath, our absence of space. Face to face, forehead to forehead.
My soul’s twin.
Tainted blood, but not doomed. She could live, but she let go. Now she’s gone somewhere far from me. I cannot follow, I’ve already tried.
Some have no choice, their blood chooses for them. This was not her affliction; she could live while others will ultimately die.
Yet
she
chooses
death
each
day
with
every
pill
she
takes.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Tonight
Tomorrow morning I go to the hospice and tonight I feel a little bit on edge thinking about it, last week it seemed that all the residents were declining, all of them, all at once.
I’ve said before the dynamics of the hospice have never been like they are now since I began volunteering. Most of the residents have been there for months. They’ve been able to walk unassisted, eat at the table, tell me their stories, laugh at my jokes. But now that’s changing and thinking about what I will face tomorrow after not being there since Thursday makes me nervous, a little fearful, and ties my stomach in knots.
It can’t happen all at once, it just can’t. And yet, somehow it is.
I’ve said before the dynamics of the hospice have never been like they are now since I began volunteering. Most of the residents have been there for months. They’ve been able to walk unassisted, eat at the table, tell me their stories, laugh at my jokes. But now that’s changing and thinking about what I will face tomorrow after not being there since Thursday makes me nervous, a little fearful, and ties my stomach in knots.
It can’t happen all at once, it just can’t. And yet, somehow it is.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Frustration
Why do I volunteer? Why an AIDS Hospice?
This question has been asked of me numerous times and I have never been able to fully form an answer. I’ve always been active in various other organizations, I’ve always given my time and heart to those who need it, but volunteering at an AIDS hospice is at the extreme end of the spectrum. Maybe my need took root as a child watching my mother take in strays, people who had no one and nowhere else to go. Or, maybe it was watching my father give his time and passion so willingly to other volunteer projects. Maybe it was my missionary grandparents who devoted their life to Haiti, or maybe it was Haiti itself. The lonely, brutalized island of my birth that always bends, but is never broken.
I was having a conversation with an acquaintance about my blog and volunteer work and he asked if I was HIV-positive. I had never been asked that question before in that context and I paused for a moment before answering. I didn’t like the context of the question, nor its implications. As if that would be the only explanation as to why I volunteer, why I write this blog, absolve him of his guilt at doing nothing and allow him to creep back into the shadows of chosen ignorance.
There are many of us who volunteer who are not HIV-positive. There are many that volunteer because they are HIV-positive, and there are many who volunteer because they lost someone close to the disease, and there are many who volunteer for their own personal reasons.
The conversation stayed with me the rest of the day, that night, and still now, as I write about it. I know it was asked as a way to connect the dots. “Why do you volunteer, why an AIDS hospice?” BUT still, the question and the subtle implications behind it bother me.
HIV/AIDS affects everyone, EVERYONE! Unless you are living on some deserted island in the middle of nowhere I guarantee you have been affected. You may not be intuitive enough to grasp how, or you may be blissfully ignorant in thinking that it has no bearing on your life, but it does and it always will until…..
So, the answer as to why I volunteer at an AIDS hospice?
At the end of the day does it really matter? If I don’t have a clear cut reason, if it’s a combination of the staggering statistics and the forgotten promises made to all who have died and are still dying, is that not enough? If all I know is that I can’t not be active in one of the greatest, almost forgotten, struggles in my lifetime, am I lacking in intent?
Today, at the hospice, the man-child I have grown so close to could barely lift his head off his pillow and I was there to hold his hand as he cried knowing the days ahead of him would be few. I was there, I was there, I was there.
Where were you?
This question has been asked of me numerous times and I have never been able to fully form an answer. I’ve always been active in various other organizations, I’ve always given my time and heart to those who need it, but volunteering at an AIDS hospice is at the extreme end of the spectrum. Maybe my need took root as a child watching my mother take in strays, people who had no one and nowhere else to go. Or, maybe it was watching my father give his time and passion so willingly to other volunteer projects. Maybe it was my missionary grandparents who devoted their life to Haiti, or maybe it was Haiti itself. The lonely, brutalized island of my birth that always bends, but is never broken.
I was having a conversation with an acquaintance about my blog and volunteer work and he asked if I was HIV-positive. I had never been asked that question before in that context and I paused for a moment before answering. I didn’t like the context of the question, nor its implications. As if that would be the only explanation as to why I volunteer, why I write this blog, absolve him of his guilt at doing nothing and allow him to creep back into the shadows of chosen ignorance.
There are many of us who volunteer who are not HIV-positive. There are many that volunteer because they are HIV-positive, and there are many who volunteer because they lost someone close to the disease, and there are many who volunteer for their own personal reasons.
The conversation stayed with me the rest of the day, that night, and still now, as I write about it. I know it was asked as a way to connect the dots. “Why do you volunteer, why an AIDS hospice?” BUT still, the question and the subtle implications behind it bother me.
HIV/AIDS affects everyone, EVERYONE! Unless you are living on some deserted island in the middle of nowhere I guarantee you have been affected. You may not be intuitive enough to grasp how, or you may be blissfully ignorant in thinking that it has no bearing on your life, but it does and it always will until…..
So, the answer as to why I volunteer at an AIDS hospice?
At the end of the day does it really matter? If I don’t have a clear cut reason, if it’s a combination of the staggering statistics and the forgotten promises made to all who have died and are still dying, is that not enough? If all I know is that I can’t not be active in one of the greatest, almost forgotten, struggles in my lifetime, am I lacking in intent?
Today, at the hospice, the man-child I have grown so close to could barely lift his head off his pillow and I was there to hold his hand as he cried knowing the days ahead of him would be few. I was there, I was there, I was there.
Where were you?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The Patio Revisited
He once told me that he didn’t understand why everyone was so frightened of death.
“Obviously it can’t be that bad because no one ever comes back. It must be better than this life we’re living.”
He was the first resident I wrote about, first in my journal and then on this blog. I’ve always wanted to revisit him, write more, but it’s hard for me to think of him in that way, dying of AIDS. Whenever I see him, he tells me jokes and bums cigarettes from me. A couple of weeks ago, he told me that he loved me. I think he meant it too.
I love the fact that he will never do anything you ask him to do until a couple of hours later, his way of claiming his independence. Even during meal times, He is always the last one to eat. You always have to set aside a plate for him and re-heat it when he’s ready. He’s the only one that can get away with that. We all love him and know that he’s a rare gem. He rarely complains, never about pain or his condition. If he’s feeling awful, he’ll never say it. You’ll only know because he’s spent more time in bed than usual. Most days you’ll find him on the patio smoking, and telling stories. He’s got some great stories to tell. Doesn’t matter if they’re peppered here and there with fiction, it’s his voice and intonation; it grabs you and holds on. He could have been an amazing actor, and he has a sharp sense of humor, somewhat dark, but always funny. He’s one of the few residents I’ve come across who has always been open and honest about having AIDS. Most residents still hang on to the negative view of their disease perpetuated by the ignorance of where they came from. Not him, he talks openly about having AIDS and how life brought him to this point.
He always tells me he’d rather be dead than ever get to a point where he has to wear a diaper or be bathed and dressed by someone. I know the day I have to change his diaper and bathe him will be a heartbreaking day. I can barely think about it, which is probably why I haven’t written about him since my first blog entry. He’s a huge part of my day when I go to the hospice. I treasure the time I get to spend with him, I love that he smiles and says “Hi Baby!” Along with a hug when I walk in, and whenever I leave he always ask when I’m coming back. I know that he knows the days I volunteer, I’ve heard him tell other residents my schedule, but I know he needs me to reassure him that I’ll be there. He has no one that comes to visit him, no family, no friends, mainly by his choice, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s alone. So every week, I tell him again, when I’m coming, I reassure him that I’ll be there.
He was my very first connection, and continues to be a large part of why I volunteer and why I write.
The other day after a brutal moment with a very sick resident, I stood in the laundry room shaking and asked myself “what am I doing here?”
The next second He comes strolling down the hall looks at me, smiles, and winks……Question answered.
“Obviously it can’t be that bad because no one ever comes back. It must be better than this life we’re living.”
He was the first resident I wrote about, first in my journal and then on this blog. I’ve always wanted to revisit him, write more, but it’s hard for me to think of him in that way, dying of AIDS. Whenever I see him, he tells me jokes and bums cigarettes from me. A couple of weeks ago, he told me that he loved me. I think he meant it too.
I love the fact that he will never do anything you ask him to do until a couple of hours later, his way of claiming his independence. Even during meal times, He is always the last one to eat. You always have to set aside a plate for him and re-heat it when he’s ready. He’s the only one that can get away with that. We all love him and know that he’s a rare gem. He rarely complains, never about pain or his condition. If he’s feeling awful, he’ll never say it. You’ll only know because he’s spent more time in bed than usual. Most days you’ll find him on the patio smoking, and telling stories. He’s got some great stories to tell. Doesn’t matter if they’re peppered here and there with fiction, it’s his voice and intonation; it grabs you and holds on. He could have been an amazing actor, and he has a sharp sense of humor, somewhat dark, but always funny. He’s one of the few residents I’ve come across who has always been open and honest about having AIDS. Most residents still hang on to the negative view of their disease perpetuated by the ignorance of where they came from. Not him, he talks openly about having AIDS and how life brought him to this point.
He always tells me he’d rather be dead than ever get to a point where he has to wear a diaper or be bathed and dressed by someone. I know the day I have to change his diaper and bathe him will be a heartbreaking day. I can barely think about it, which is probably why I haven’t written about him since my first blog entry. He’s a huge part of my day when I go to the hospice. I treasure the time I get to spend with him, I love that he smiles and says “Hi Baby!” Along with a hug when I walk in, and whenever I leave he always ask when I’m coming back. I know that he knows the days I volunteer, I’ve heard him tell other residents my schedule, but I know he needs me to reassure him that I’ll be there. He has no one that comes to visit him, no family, no friends, mainly by his choice, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s alone. So every week, I tell him again, when I’m coming, I reassure him that I’ll be there.
He was my very first connection, and continues to be a large part of why I volunteer and why I write.
The other day after a brutal moment with a very sick resident, I stood in the laundry room shaking and asked myself “what am I doing here?”
The next second He comes strolling down the hall looks at me, smiles, and winks……Question answered.
Monday, February 11, 2008
They Remembered Me
It was my birthday recently and when I went to the hospice the residents remembered. They signed a card and bought me gifts, they remembered me. Most days they can’t even tell you what month or day it is, but they remembered my birthday and then they asked, as they always do, for me to never forget them.
As if I could?
As if I could?
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Newport Menthol Revisited
You were lying in bed when I walked in your room to say hello. Your arms stretched over your eyes as if to ward off unwanted thoughts. I hesitated in the doorway for a moment that could only be seen by me. Those long frail arms shocked me; the outline of elbow against skin hurt me.
I see you.
I know that you will be leaving me soon and there’s so much I wish I could say, but I don’t have the right. I don’t have the right to remind you of something you doggedly avoid at all cost. I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss you because you won’t admit that you’re leaving.
So, I walked over to your side and leaned over and kissed your jutted out cheekbone and smiled for you just like I knew you needed me to.
I hope I can survive you.
I see you.
I know that you will be leaving me soon and there’s so much I wish I could say, but I don’t have the right. I don’t have the right to remind you of something you doggedly avoid at all cost. I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss you because you won’t admit that you’re leaving.
So, I walked over to your side and leaned over and kissed your jutted out cheekbone and smiled for you just like I knew you needed me to.
I hope I can survive you.
A Day Without Loss
This morning when I pulled up to the hospice there where more cars than usual parked in front and on the side streets, I paused for a moment and then kept driving. I decided since it was still early that I would stop at the corner store to pick up a pack of cigarettes for the house and candy for the residents. I called a close friend that knew exactly what I meant when I said “The house is surrounded by cars.”
I was stalling.
Usually lots of cars parked in and around the hospice means that a resident has died or is dying and family and friends have flocked to spend their final moments, to cry, to grieve, so say goodbye.
I picked out the usual assortment of candy at the store for the usual residents and wondered if some of the candy I was buying was for a resident that was no longer with us. As I pulled up to the hospice again and parked in one of the few available spots I braced myself for whatever might come as I walked through the front door.
The loss of a resident is always difficult regardless of their length of stay. Everyone in the house is affected, the other residents, silent and scared as they face their own mortality. The staff and volunteers, sad at the loss of someone they had taken care of if only for a few moments in a day filled with many moments. Of course there are some residents that touch us in different ways. I know I have formed bonds and crossed lines that will test my strength and hopefully I’ll find a soft place to land when I come spiraling down in the aftermath of loss and loss and loss and loss and loss.
But today, as I braced myself for the worst, I walked into the hospice and saw that the names on the charts had remained the same. The influx of cars was due to visitors touring the hospice rather than loss or impending loss.
Today, I am thankful for a day without loss.
I was stalling.
Usually lots of cars parked in and around the hospice means that a resident has died or is dying and family and friends have flocked to spend their final moments, to cry, to grieve, so say goodbye.
I picked out the usual assortment of candy at the store for the usual residents and wondered if some of the candy I was buying was for a resident that was no longer with us. As I pulled up to the hospice again and parked in one of the few available spots I braced myself for whatever might come as I walked through the front door.
The loss of a resident is always difficult regardless of their length of stay. Everyone in the house is affected, the other residents, silent and scared as they face their own mortality. The staff and volunteers, sad at the loss of someone they had taken care of if only for a few moments in a day filled with many moments. Of course there are some residents that touch us in different ways. I know I have formed bonds and crossed lines that will test my strength and hopefully I’ll find a soft place to land when I come spiraling down in the aftermath of loss and loss and loss and loss and loss.
But today, as I braced myself for the worst, I walked into the hospice and saw that the names on the charts had remained the same. The influx of cars was due to visitors touring the hospice rather than loss or impending loss.
Today, I am thankful for a day without loss.
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