Sharing the Dead - David's Story

I've often thought of David, now 15 years after his death. I've kept him selfishly close to my heart alone. Yet the memory of him has matured and sweetened me and now tugs at me to share with those who care to listen.

My encounter with him was brief and one I have never forgotten. It was around 9:30 p.m. on a beautiful late spring evening. I was working second shift at Hospice Care and to be honest, while I loved the work, I would have as soon been out with friends that night. They had gone to Louisville to play and I had pulled this shift. I wasn't in the best of moods.

I completed my evening rounds and walked up the hallway toward the nurses' station when David's call light came on above his door. The nurse and aid assigned to his room were busy with another patient, so I stepped into his room to see what he needed. He was lying in bed, the hospital gown swallowing his gaunt frame. He was thin and wasting, but you could catch a glimpse of the handsome, strong man he used to be even under the harsh fluorescent lighting which washed any remaining color from his skin. He was grasping the side rails trying to pull himself upright.

"I need to go to the bathroom."

His speech was starting to slur slightly and his motor function was impaired beyond the capability to keep himsself from flailing. I walked over to the bed and lowered the side rail, helping him slide around to a sitting position.

"Ok, David, I'm going to help you stand. Put your arms around me and I'll pivot you onto the pot."

The "potty chair" as we called it was sitting close to the bedside and David looked at it clearly frustrated. "I would rather use the bathroom," he said, pointing clumsily to the door on the other side of the room.

"Are you sure you can make it there?" His gait was unsteady and I was not convinced that he could navigate even the short distance across the room. But he was insistent. "Please," he begged "I hate that damned thing."

I put the gait belt around his waist to help me control him. He put his arms around my shoulders and stood for a moment steadying his footing. Then together we walked, me backwards facing him in an ungainly waltz to the toilet. I helped him sit and stood just outside, the door cracked.

After, I gently cleaned him and washed my hands. I turned to him and asked if he was ready and he suddenly began to sob uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry." He wept. I assumed he was talking about the need for assistance, and as much as I don't like to admit it now, I found myself a bit impatient. I just wanted to get him back into bed and go sit for a few minutes. My feet were killing me.

"David there's nothing to be ashamed of. This is my job." But he would not be soothed. He continued to cry softly, heart wrenchingly into the sleeve of his gown. I leaned against the edge of the sink and let him have his moment feeling a bit helpless to do more. In short order he slowed and wiped his tears. "I screwed up," he finally said in a hitching voice. "I thought he loved me. But if he loved me why am dying? I screwed up. Now he's dead and I can't even wipe my own ass. How fucking lame."

I was suddenly ashamed for feeling the way I was. What could I say to that? David was HIV positive and had AIDS-dementia complex. At the age of 28, he was losing his motor function and mental capacity and it would likely not be long before the virus that had invaded his body would take his life.

What was worse, David was alone. His family had abandoned him. No one ever came to see him. In the three weeks since his admission, not even the nurses bothered him much. They generally considered him sullen and difficult. Hell, who wouldn't be in that situation? The thought of dying alone, unloved and treated as a pariah made me shudder. Aren't family supposed to love you no matter what?

I reached over and gently swept his long bangs out of his eyes, leaned near his face and asked him, "Did you love him, David?" He was silent for a moment and he finally said "Yes, I think so. Yes."

"Did he love you?" Again silence, then he finally nodded his head. "I miss him." he said, starting to tear up again and turning red-faced. "I'm mad as hell he left me here."

He sat there for a moment longer and finished wiping his tears. He blew his nose and finally asked to go back to bed. I pulled him up with the gait belt and he put his arms around me and we began to walk slowly back across the dimly lit 12x12 room. Halfway he stopped to regain his footing, then lifted his head again and tilted it to the right as if to tell his body to follow, but instead looked at me. No, that's not right. He looked into me with his piercing eyes still red from tears and asked, "Do you think I'm handsome?" He wanted - needed - an answer.

I looked at his skin so thin and deathly pale it was near translucent as it stretched taut over his skull. I could feel his ribs protruding from his chest and could hear the rattle of fluid in his lungs. His breath smelled of the milky supplement that had replaced food and the soft stubble of two days growth needed shaved. And still he had that beautiful head of thick, black hair falling across his face and yes, you could most definitely see the man he used to be.

"David I think you're very handsome. I can see what he saw in you, you know. Your eyes are the deepest blue I've ever seen and that hair! So thick and black. I'd kill for it!" David smiled and laid his head on my shoulder, arms still around me in a half-hug. I could feel his hold tighten around me just slightly. He breathed in deeply as if taking in the moment, then exhaled in a rush of air and the room got quiet.

"I was pretty hot," he said suddenly. "I'll leave you the hair in my will." We both cracked up and laughed a deep joyous laugh that made us both shake to the point of nearly dropping him.

David lifted his head off my shoulder and he looked at me again with those intense blue eyes the color of arctic ice. This time, though, it wasn't me he was seeing. He was somewhere else.

"He asked me to dance that night we met. He asked me to dance and he took me out on the floor and we slow danced just like this and the world seemed to stop."

"Well," I said, "we have a clear floor. Shall we?"

He put his head back on my shoulder and we swayed for a few moments, literally dancing back to the bed to music only he could hear. I tucked him back in, fluffed his pillows and kissed him lightly on the forehead before turning out the fluorescents above his bed and leaving him to dream of slow dances with the one he loved.

***

Two weeks later, I was working the evening shift again and David had deteriorated quite badly. I don't know if he was even aware I was there, but I would go in and check on him from time-to-time. When my shift was over I told the charge nurse I was going to sit with him a while and she nodded without looking up from her charting.

I walked into the dim room and sat in the orange lounge chair by his bed. I took his hand and held it while he struggled to draw breath. It brought the last lines of the A.E. Housman poem Reveille to my mind. 'Clay lies still, but blood's a rover. Breath's a ware that will not keep. Up, lad: when the journey's over there'll be time enough to sleep.' It was late and I turned out the light above his bed one last time and waited.