The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [6]
It was about eight when dinner was over. Paul and June went back upstairs to their room. Everyone else spontaneously started clearing the table. When I entered the kitchen, someone was doing dishes and another person was wrapping the food for tomorrow’s meals. Everyone left except the attendant, Evan, and one other volunteer, Gary. Evan went upstairs to be with the residents while Gary and I finished cleaning. When we were done, we were expected to go upstairs and spend time with the residents. When I asked the volunteer coordinator before my shift began what I should be doing, she said, “Just be present.” Although I nodded, signaling that I understood, I didn’t.
I would be with Jim throughout the night, and Gary would stay with the other two residents until ten. Paul’s wife would be taking care of him, and Evan would be there for everyone. Attendants were very special people. Some were certified nursing assistants (CNAs), and others had slightly less training; although I never could tell the difference in their duties. The residents referred to them as “angels.” Whatever was needed by the residents they did, from changing soiled linens to monitoring medications to quietly sitting by the bedside holding someone’s hand as he or she died.
I realized I was repeatedly vacuuming the same spot on the rug, dragging out the cleaning as long as I could. Downstairs, there was distance between Jim and me. It felt safe and, now, very clean. Upstairs, well, I didn’t know how I was going to be “present.”
As I climbed the stairs, the food odors faded, gradually over-powered by the smell of disinfectant. I asked Evan for the notes kept on each resident. I read that Jim only left his room when he had the strength. Since the prior week, he had been downstairs just once. Only a few people had come to visit since he arrived two months ago. And he was becoming combative and increasingly incontinent. Bowel movements were loose because of the colitis, and he often couldn’t get to the commode in time, or, when he was delirious, he forgot to take off his pants and diaper.
I entered Jim’s room and saw him sitting on a recliner with his eyes closed. According to Evan, Jim hadn’t slept in his bed for two days. He preferred to sleep fully clothed on the recliner. I looked at the bed with its quilt and puffed-up pillows, trying to imagine how many people had died in it over the seventeen-year existence of the Guest House and wondering if the number would increase that night.
“Hi Jim,” I said, sitting in a chair three feet away from him. He said something, but I couldn’t hear what it was. I moved the chair closer and said, “Is there anything I can get you?”
He shook his head no.
“Anything I can do for you?”
Again, a no. I noticed he was wearing dress shoes covering socks whose elastic tops were indenting his skin. “Those shoes and socks look uncomfortable. Would you like me to take them off?” I asked.
He shook his head no, then slowly turned to me and waited until I moved even closer. Reluctantly, I placed my ear a few inches from his mouth and wondered if he’d spray me with saliva. And if he did, how would I react? I prepared to pull away as he started speaking.
“They pinch my toes,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“If they pinch your toes, why don’t you want them off?”
“It keeps me awake.”
I didn’t know if he wanted to stay awake because he feared dying if he fell asleep, or because he wanted to talk. If it was the first, I didn’t think I was ready for it. If it was the second, I would be less concerned, but unsure how to talk to him. Despite the role playing we did in training, I felt like a teenager about to meet a blind date.