The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [11]
I never saw Jim’s brother smile, and I never saw him talk to any of the volunteers or staff. During the first day of his stay, I heard their conversation through the open door of his room. It started pleasantly, with both of them recollecting their childhoods, then adolescence, and finally adulthood. As they progressed through the years, joviality was gradually replaced by accusations. He reminded Jim of every thoughtless thing he ever did, using words that sounded to me as if they were burning the inside of his mouth. Jim sank lower into the recliner as his brother vividly described painful events for twenty minutes.
Tearfully he said, “I’m sorry, Rick, please forgive me. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you.”
“Really? You should have thought about it before you went back to using.”
“I know.”
“Even if I forgive you, your daughter is still dead because of you.”
I didn’t hear any words indicating that he was shocked. I had wondered since our first night if he really believed his daughter was still alive. When he started crying, Rick left the room. I entered quietly and sat next to him.
“It didn’t work,” he said. “I’ve done some terrible things in my life,” he continued.
“We all have.”
“No, you don’t understand. You can’t. Not bad things. Terrible things. There are things I can’t be forgiven for. I know that when I die, people will celebrate. And they should. I wanted my brother to forgive me, but I didn’t think he would. Actually, I knew he wouldn’t, but I had to try.”
As he cried, I put my arm around him. I had never done that with Jim. Hugging and cradling were things he always wanted from female volunteers. Firm handshakes were for men. As I held him, he leaned toward me. This was the closest we had ever been physically. I started thinking about things I did throughout my life that I was sorry for. The list seemed endless. Eventually he became quiet.
Looking at me he said, “You’re a sweetheart.”
“That’s not something I’d expect to hear from a street-smart guy like you. I don’t even hear that from my wife,” I lied. He laughed. We were both becoming more comfortable expressing our feelings. “Is there anything I can do for you, Jim?”
In a clear voice, he said, “Shoot me.”
“Sorry. Anything, but that,” I said. He smiled and leaned back in the recliner waiting for the morphine to take effect.
I knew he would be in physical and psychological pain until he died. I didn’t admit it to anyone, but I hoped it would happen soon. I saw aspects of Jim’s life in my own. I looked back on times when I wanted to ask for forgiveness but didn’t. I wondered if my father’s death twenty-five years ago would have been any different if I had been able to ask him to forgive some spiteful things I said years before he died. Would his last few hours have been more peaceful if I were able to express gratitude for all he gave me? I was slightly better with my mother’s death. I always wondered if she knew how important she was to me. I knew I should have told her, but I wasn’t able to then.
I was spending Tuesday and Thursday overnights with Jim. But one Thursday in December, all the volunteers were required to attend a training session at another location. The first presentation was by a nurse who had been working in hospice for fifteen years. As she described her interactions with patients, I realized I still wasn’t able to deal with an idea that had been presented during my training: being able to fall in love with those I served and then let them go without regrets. I wouldn’t say I’d fallen in love with Jim. Maybe I felt the type of friendship that occurs when you share experiences so wrenchingly authentic that they create a bond that defines the relationship forever. I knew I would miss him like a crotchety old uncle who, years after his death, is only remembered for his good qualities.
“How do you accept the loss when someone you love dies?” I asked.
She immediately replied, “Love can take many forms. The love I experience for my patients involves feeling I’ve done everything I could