Somewhere Along the Way

I was walking home alone the other night and it suddenly dawned on me. Somewhere in the midst of the giant piles of my favorite Thanksgiving foods, some point in the middle of my joy of having my family here with me in D.C. for the holiday, some how even amidst the smiles and laughter that fill my life I had begun to mourn. I am in the process of grieving.

It started three weeks ago. Mr. J had been the first person I had met when I started working at Joseph's House. He sat on the front porch every day, smoking cigarettes, tapping his foot to a Ray Charles' tune, and greeting everyone who passed by on the street. At first, I was intimidated by him. J had been at the house for over a year, the longest of any other resident, and was clearly the patriarch of our community. He liked things a certain way and was not shy about telling it like it was. I learned quickly how to run and maintain the various forms of oxygen that kept him alive, not because I wanted to do my job well, but because I did not want him to be disappointed in me. In those first weeks, I never seemed to be good enough for him and he in turn never remembered my name.

Somewhere along the way though, I started to understand him. J reminded me of my grandfather. My Tama is constantly telling me to not eat this, to come inside, to not travel so far from home. The words can sound rough and limiting to an outsider, but I have grown up with them and I know what my grandfather is really saying. He says to not eat something because it gives him a stomach ache and he worries that my body will have the same reaction. Tama remembers all of the times that I fell and injured myself as a child playing outside so he asks me to stay in. And he remembers every day how when I first left home, I almost never made it back. With every reprimand, I hear him saying he loves me.

Mr. J was the same way. For days I could not understand why he would not let me give him an oxygen treatment if he was sitting out on the front porch. He would ask for someone to help, but then when I came, he would abruptly tell me to get someone else. When I finally demanded why he would not let me help him he grumbled, "Girl, you always come out here without a coat. I don't want you to freeze just to give me oxygen." He needed that oxygen to survive, but all he could think of was taking care of me.

Somewhere along the way, he became precious. Every moment with him, every task he asked me to do felt like an honor. J ate a hamburger every day for lunch and I don't think any vegetarian enjoyed cooking meat as much as I did making him that meal every day. Learning how to play Dominoes from him, watching crime shows with him in the living room, giving away bouquets of flowers to ladies on the street on his behalf. It is amazing how the smallest things become sacred in the presence of love.

One memory encapsulates my entire relationship with him. Near the end of a shift that had been busier than usual, J had one of his many anxiety attacks and became short of breath. I prepared his treatment and sensed that something was different. Normally during his spells, I would have to actively soothe J as he struggled to take in oxygen. But this time he seemed to calm himself just by seeing me. I administered his treatment feeling all of my presence merging with his. As I kneeled beside him, we held hands as we so often did and he turned to the men with us and said, "Here's my guardian angel. She's my angel. I don't need any of this medicine or machines. I just needed her." I went home that night and cried. In that moment, I had felt more loved, cherished, and seen than at any other time in my whole life and I knew deep in my spirit that my time with J was coming to an end.

The day before he died was the birthday of one of my co-workers and Mr. J was determined to make it a good one. "She does so many special things for us," he explained to me, "so we need to make this special for her." He oversaw the decorating process and sent people out to get the cake and gifts. He stood in the dining room playing air guitar and keeping watch so that she did not walk in on the surprise before it was ready (which she did anyway and then he lectured all of us for failing at our jobs). He sang and pulled pranks, laughed and gave everyone compliments. He knew that we all loved him and we knew that he loved all of us. The next morning, as I came to say goodbye to his body, I saw that even in death he was still smiling. Even in death, he was still caring for us.

Grief is an interesting thing. It does not always hit at once. Sometimes it numbs you into thinking you are completely fine, that maybe you are not really hurting after all. And then somewhere along the way it begins to remind you that you too are finite and human and very, very fragile. Mr. J had befriended another resident. Their's had been a bromance that blessed everyone around them. I can not ignore how J's death has impacted his friend and how we are now bracing ourselves for his death, too. I can not ignore how so many of my co-workers and myself pause at the door of J's now empty bedroom. I can not ignore the longing I feel in my chest when I look for him on the front porch and remember that he will never sit there again.

I am fortunate to work in a place that embraces all of the emotions that come with grief. Somewhere along the way that made Joseph's House how it is, someone knew that mourning is a process. I already knew before I came that grief is hard. We all know that. That is why as humans we avoid things and people that will hurt us. We pull away from attachments with meaningful others out of fear that we are not strong enough to handle the pain of the inevitable loss that comes with any relationship. But at Joseph's House I am being taught that grief is also beautiful. How blessed am I to have the opportunity to love someone deeply enough to mourn his or her physical death? That is a gift. Some people go through their entire lives without being vulnerable enough to feel the hurt that comes with real companionship. I get to feel it as my job. Wow. How cool is that?

The Meditation Room

There is a room in Joseph's House specifically set aside as a place of stillness and meditation. I like to tiptoe into it when the house gets quiet and sit with Gracie, one of the four cats that roam throughout the halls, amongst the pillows and candles. In the meditation room are things needed to help someone find peace: a Bible, a statue of the Buddha, incense, books of poetry, pens and paper. I find comfort in the traditional symbols of my faith and in the newer expressions of my spirituality, but I always find myself drawn to a framed prayer hanging by the altar. The words resonate with me and I share them with you in hopes that it may help you find a place of rest as well.

"Let it not be death but completeness.

Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.

Let the flight through the sky 

end in the folding of wings over the nest.

Let the last touch of your hands

be gentle like the flower of the night.

Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment,

and say your last words in silence.

I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way."

- Rabindranath Tagore