The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [4]
“Of course,” I responded. “What difference would a few more hours make?” I was still minimizing the lingering effects of the surgery and the perpetual exhaustion I felt from the cancer treatments. I could tell Wendy was concerned, but given our history (she usually wanted to discuss my feelings about the cancer and I usually refused) she didn’t persist. I called the hospice attendant to let her know I would take the Thursday overnight shift.
“What can you tell me about Jim?” I asked.
“He’s sixty-seven and was a heroin addict on and off since age seventeen,” she said. “The last time he was using was about five years ago.” There was a pause and I could hear her turning pages.
“I’m looking at his chart and see he doesn’t get along with most people. Scares them actually. He’s quiet during the day,” she continued, “but at night he becomes a different person. We think it’s the toxic chemicals his liver is producing. You know, he has hepatitis C.”
I didn’t expect that my first patient would be contagious and I would need to use every universal precaution I had been taught. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember all of them. How do you take the gloves off? Do you turn them inside out with a free pinky, or was it a thumb? What do you do if there is contact? Until then, dealing with a contagious person was theoretical. Yes, put on gloves, don’t allow their bodily fluids to come in contact with your open sores, and wash your hands after you take off the gloves. Since we spoke in generalities, it never was threatening. Now, it was someone with a name, whose body was home to a virus even more deadly than my cancer. And the only thing separating us would be a thin layer of latex and as much physical distance as I could create without being embarrassed.
“After ten, he enters another world,” the attendant said. “Two things happened last night. The first was he left his room, yelling ‘Deuce’ as he walked through the House.”
“Who’s Deuce?”
“When I asked him, he said Deuce was his drug dealer. Then it got really strange. After I got him back into bed and left the room, he called me back and pleaded that I ask them to let him go.”
“Who?” I asked.
“He said the bakery workers wouldn’t let him leave because he hadn’t finished baking something. In a loud voice I said, ‘Let Jim leave!’ It didn’t help. He kept repeating that they won’t let him leave until his bread was baked.”
She continued talking, but I heard little. Not only did the story resonate with those from Final Gifts, but I remembered a conversation I had had with the volunteer coordinator the previous week—I had offered to bake bread for the Thanksgiving dinner.
I drove to the House in the late afternoon on that warm Thanksgiving Day. I parked at the end of the block and walked on a sidewalk covered with leaves, their normally brilliant colors muted by the overcast sky. The Guest House was a Victorian home that maintained its 1850s splendor while surrounded by similar houses that had seen their prime decades before. There was nothing on its exterior that hinted about the remarkable things occurring inside. The only sign was a small bronze plaque next to the front door that stated this was a historical building. In every pastel-painted room except the kitchen, chandeliers descended from high ceilings through plaster rosettes. The people who were cared for weren’t called “patients,” they were “residents,” a distinction that was more than semantic. At capacity, six adults could be housed.
I opened the unlocked door and smelled roasting turkey. I saw about ten people, each doing something related to dinner. The living room was transformed into a festive dining area with a large table in the