Gary

Two weeks ago I began volunteering at a local hospice that specializes in care for HIV/AIDS patients. A hospice, for readers who might be unfamiliar, is a health-care facility for the terminally ill, emphasizing pain control and emotional support for patients and family. While this hospice's primary mission is to care for the HIV/AIDS community, its doors are open to all end-of-life patients.

I sought this opportunity with a duel purpose: first and foremost, I'd hoped to assist those in need with whatever empathetic care and comfort that were within my abilities... not yet certain of how my 'abilities' would manifest themselves. Secondly, I'd hoped that I would gain - in some capacity - insight, empathy, inspiration, and direction for my personal and professional life.

I've been battling more than a little apprehension about writing of my experiences at the hospice. The human connections there are very real, and accelerated by the emotionally saturated nature of the environment. As a volunteer, I basically offer companionship and the genuine connection of one human being to another. That sounds a little high-brow... what I essentially do is listen, converse, engage, and joke with the residents at the hospice. I try to do so with complete honesty, leaving myself open (vulnerable?) to be affected by what we share. If I didn't do so, I'd be devaluing the energy, emotion, and time (so valuable and limited for many of the patients) that the residents are sharing with me.

In sharing my personal experiences at the hospice (on this post and in the future) I will maintain patient confidentiality and trust by altering specific details of each individual: their name, physical appearance, race, age, place of home, former occupation, etc. While taking such liberties, I will do my best to hold on to the essence and poignancy of each person and encounter. This may end up a complete disaster. I'm sure my writing abilities won't do justice, and if I ever feel as though I'm getting anywhere near compromising confidentiality... I'll stop this exercise.

...

Gary and I have been sitting by the second floor window for maybe an hour. It's his favorite spot in the activities room... sitting under the "Egyptian Painting" (hieroglyphs), Gary can watch the cars and buses lurch down the congested street below. He can admire the tree tops poking out from the sea of rooftops... little islands of greenery under temperamental Seattle skies. Today it's sunny. Gary loves it when it's sunny.

Seated, Gary's head is about six inches above mine... he sits in a very complicated looking wheel chair. Whenever we speak, he looks down to me with kind eyes that radiate patience, dignity, and always a sparkle of knowing. I have to sit to Gary's right because he can only see and hear from that side... the result of his relapse with brain cancer. Gary's a handsome guy... satiny chocolate skin with a well kept salt-and-pepper beard. The beard and his receded hairline give him a very intellectual dignity. I liked him immediately. Gary is dying from inoperable brain cancer near his brain stem.

Gary had explained that over ten years ago, he'd had a golf-ball sized tumor removed from his brain. After, chemo, radiation, and intensive rehabilitation, he'd regained all his cognitive and motor function, all except his vision and hearing from the left-side. Just over a year ago, however, he suddenly collapsed and doctors later discovered a new larger tumor that was pressing on his brain stem. The doctors could do nothing. The pressure on Gary's brain stem has caused him to lose most of his motor function. His hands have terrible tremors, his swallowing reflexes are severely impaired (he has to be fed pureed meals), and his limbs often defy his command. The left side of his face is slightly swollen and sags a bit; his left eye has the cloudy appearance of cataracts.

Gary speaks very slowly and deliberately... speaking out of the right-side of his mouth. His voice sounds distinctly like Winnie the Pooh's... which is perfect given the remarkable light-heartedness with which he speaks. We talk about travel (Gary's been all over Europe), music, favorite coffee shops around Seattle, our parents, home-towns... he gets the charge-nurse laughing with a self-deprecating blurb about how much grief he causes the nursing staff here. Everyone's in love with Gary.

At one point we're talking about good books we've read, and I ask Gary what he's reading right now... immediately regretting asking such a stupid question. So stupid. Gary can't hold a book. I apologize, and Gary responds:

"No, no... don't need to apologize," he pauses for a long breath, "good question," pause, "I'm reading Pride and Prejudice."

"Pride and Prejudice?" I blurt out.

"Book on tape," Gary winks at me.

"Of course," I chuckle, "but Pride and Prejudice? Really?"

"Yeah," pause, "Pride and Prejudice," pause for breath, "the selection," breathe, "is a bit limited," pause, "you know?"

I'm just beaming smiles at him, "How is it? I've never read it."

"Oh, it's wooonderful," breathe, "but that Darcy is a real asshole." And with that, Gary's shoulders bounce up and down as he cracks himself up. "It's tough though," pause, "I didn't know," pause, breathe, "how much I enjoyed turning the pages," pause, "of a book."

"I've never thought of that," I reply. I hadn't.

"It's frustrating," breathe, "sometimes, you know?" Pause for breath. "I can't do most of," pause, "what I used to."

"I can't begin to imagine," I interject clumsily, "but you still have a great mind, Gary."

"Yes." pause. "Thank God for that." breathe. "I have a good life, Tim." pause. "I have a lot," breathe, "to be thankful for."

I'm silent. Too affected. Gary continues, "this place is good." pause. "good people." breathe. "good care." breathe. "good food." pause. "well, the food sucks." laugh-breathe-laugh-breathe-breathe. Gary's totally beside himself.

I can only laugh along... drunk on Gary.