A Last Goodbye

The elevator doors slid shut with a ding. For the vertical span of three floors, I was entombed with no sign of life save for the fluttering butterflies in my belly and the blinking numerals next to the shining silver buttons. The smell of antiseptic did not seep into this box, but the pungent odor of leftover cafeteria stroganoff did.

With another ding, the doors unclamped their grip, and I was free to approach the over-bright fluorescent corridor. Straight. Turn left. Last door facing ahead at the end of the hallway. My footsteps were slow, my heartbeat rapid. I did not know what to expect. How bad would it be?

The picture window offering a view of the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge was the first thing I noticed as I entered the room. Beneath it, a white-haired woman, drawn, hunched in a sea green vinyl chair. This is what a grieving mother looks like, I thought to myself. Aunt Helen? She rose and advanced. We greeted each other with our family’s perfunctory kiss of the air to the side of the right cheek. She returned to her distant seat.

To my left, jutting from the wall was a single bed that housed a skeleton. Cousin Larry? Ignoring the red signs posted in strategic places throughout the room warning of contamination, I approached him slowly and kissed his forehead lightly. I pulled up an aqua blue vinyl chair next to his bed and sat close to his right side. With ungloved hands, I reached for the Styrofoam cup of water that was sitting on his nightstand. Realizing he would be unable to lift himself to an upright position for drinking, I also retrieved the disposable straw—one with an elbow to bend to his mouth as I held it between his chapped-to-the-point-of-bleeding lips.

Angry lesions covered the visible areas of his body. The unseen areas beneath the light blue hospital gown and coarse white cotton blanket were sure to be the same, maybe worse. His eyes were sunken and their twinkle absent. Is this the boy that I, three years his junior, had played handball with against the graffitied concrete wall? Is this the boy with whom I had melted Crayolas into Coke bottle caps for shooting skelly? Is this the boy who had taught me to light firecrackers? What happened to the mischievous pre-teen with whom I had spent so many weekends in Flushing, Queens? How did the last dozen years since then lead him here like this?

I doted on him, not knowing what else to do. “Are you still thirsty? Are you cold? Shall I get the nurse?” I wanted to relieve his symptoms as a way of relieving my own anxiety. I wanted to alleviate his mother’s shame and tell her it was no longer necessary to pretend that he had skin cancer; I knew it was AIDS. I knew this would be our last goodbye, and I wanted this visit to be meaningful. But, instead, I commented on how lovely the vase of daisies looked on the windowsill, I straightened the Get Well card dangling from the corkboard near the foot of the bed, and I again reached for the cup of water with the elbowed straw.  

It is a privilege to be welcomed into the process when one is preparing to transition from one plane of existence to another. It is a sacred trust bestowed upon us when we are invited in while the worldly is being released. We are oftentimes nervous when we enter, uncertain what to expect. We are not sure what to say or how to act. It might feel more comfortable to keep away and distant. But when we can overcome our own discomfort, or at least bear it, and remain present for another; when we can hold a quiet space for the dying and grieving; when we can surpass the compulsion to engage in meaningless chatter that crowds the space for intimate conversation; when we can sit still; when we can be with rather than do for, then this is the greatest gift we can offer and the most loving tribute we can pay as a last goodbye. I wish I had known that then.

Be enlightened!  ~ M