The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [10]
“How was it?” Wendy asked as I walked through the door. I couldn’t speak. I started to cry and hugged her as my grown children looked on. After my night with Jim, I felt more alive than I ever had. During my shift, there wasn’t time to think about the past or future. My mind remained in the present, unlike the previous six months, which I had spent wallowing in the past—trying to relive experiences that I would never have again—or leaping into the future, creating goals that would affirm a long life—one that I might not have. For the next three weeks, I stayed overnight every Thursday after the end of my shift. One week, I stayed overnight on two consecutive days. Although there were peaceful times, Jim was acutely agitated at least half of the time. One night, he even tried to punch Irma when she was giving him morphine.
“Is that the best you can do?” he shouted as I caught a left hook before it could hit her face. I don’t remember ever reacting so fast.
“Jim, it’s me, Irma,” she said to him sweetly, not flinching. Their faces were inches from each other as I struggled to hold back his arm. Instead of moving away, Irma kept talking. “Remember? You said I was like a grandmother to you. Remember?”
He looked at her intently. Finally, there was a look of recognition, then he said, “Hey, Irma. How are you, darling?” A smile came over his face, and I felt his muscles relax. Then I watched his eyes close.
This pattern repeated itself for the next few weeks. Jim became agitated, believing he was on the streets again, ready to fight all comers whether they were imaginary street people trying to steal his stash or the little Bolivian grandmother who was trying to comfort him. When the delusions stopped, and if he was conscious, he apologized profusely, repeatedly asking everyone in the room to forgive him. As he ate less, his body began consuming its own fat, revealing a wiry, muscular physique. If you didn’t know his condition, you might assume he was an aging boxer. Then, with little fat left, his muscle started breaking down.
Volunteers agreed to stay at his bedside twenty-four hours a day. The nurse told me the toxic chemicals his dying liver was producing caused the agitation. I thought it was more than chemistry. He struggled constantly with things that needed finishing before he died. His comment at Thanksgiving dinner that I could never make as many mistakes as he did was the first sign. Then came the conversation about wanting to reestablish a connection with his daughter. As our friendship developed, he talked about wanting to ask for forgiveness from scores of people he hurt. Some had already died; others he didn’t know about. Family, other than his brother, wouldn’t speak to him.
Whatever mistakes Jim made in the past didn’t appear correctable, or, if they were, I couldn’t seem to help him find a way to do it. Perhaps I didn’t have the experience, or the wisdom, or the willingness to open myself even more than I had already. The only thing I could do was listen. Other volunteers were more successful at calming Jim than I was. One woman got in bed with him when nothing helped the pain and restlessness. She caressed him until he fell asleep, the way a mother caresses a frightened child. I was humbled watching her, wondering if I could ever become as compassionate. But even with her, Jim’s agitation stopped only for short periods. Few friends visited. After repeated phone calls from Jim to his brother, his brother agreed to come and stay with him for two days. When he heard his brother would be visiting, we talked about forgiveness.