A Peaceful Presence

There is a kind man living at Joseph's House whose presence for a long time intimidated me. He is very quiet. He spends much of his time meditating. His bedroom door is often closed. He doesn't speak too much English. Over the past few weeks, I have found myself avoiding his room. Our exchanges have been nothing more than simple "Good mornings" or "Do you need some pain medicine?" I have avoided him for so long, not because I do not know how to approach him, but because I am afraid to disturb his peace.

Like my friend who passed away a few weeks ago, this peaceful man is dying from liver cancer. Each day I witness his skin becoming more yellow, his body wasting away, and his feet swelling up as his body retains fluid. But for some reason, I still stay away from him. I have been told by many co-workers that this peaceful man has accepted that he is dying. He is ready to die. And still I stay away. As much as I say that I am fearful of disturbing him, or disrupting him in the middle of a meditation, I am realizing that I am actually scared of somehow messing up the peace that he has found. I am scared because it is so hard to fathom how some people can accept death and not try to run away from it or deny it like so many of us do.

This past Sunday, I worked the evening shift. After helping to clean up one of the other residents, I was getting some garbage bags from the hallway. I noticed that the bathroom door was closed and the light was on. Only one resident usually uses that bathroom, so I knew that our peaceful friend was inside. I heard the door open, met his eyes with mine, and next thing I knew, he was falling face first on to the hard wood floor. I watched as his swollen feet inside of sandals that didn't fit got caught on the threshold between the bathroom and the hallway. I watched as his arms flailed. Next thing I knew, he was on the ground. Two of my co-workers came flying up the stairs, along with our director. We helped our peaceful friend on to his back and got a pillow for him to rest his head on.

His chin was bleeding a bit, and he had chipped his front two teeth. He kept touching his teeth, as if to see if they had really broken. Each of us had a hand somewhere on his body - his arm or his head. Suddenly, he looked over at Cameron and said, "No CPR. No CPR." I was floored. Not for one second did I think this would be the moment he would die - and it wasn't - but to hear him say that, to so clearly accept that he is dying. My mind was really blown by that. How inspirational. How powerful. A few moments later, he looked as us, chuckled a little, and said, "Calm down." 

That's the kind of person he is, and I am really just starting to recognize it. Not only is he peaceful (which I admire so much), he also is full of joy. He puts others before himself. He is always giving - whether with a soft, gentle smile, or with some fruit that grows in China that his brother brings to the house. Even in the time that I avoided his room, I have learned so much from him about life. Every moment is special and is to be appreciated. Life is about being. I am really starting to understand what it means to be, and I am appreciative to this peaceful man for helping me see the light.

Redemption Song

My dear friend's battle with liver cancer ended this past Friday. My heart aches for him, wishing he was sitting on the front porch at Joseph's House to say, "Good morning, Shorty," or sitting in his room listening to Bob Marley. But I know he is still here in spirit. He still watches over me when I walk home, and he still greets me good morning when I arrive at Joseph's House.

Watching him die was one of the most challenging experiences, but also a very rewarding one. It was a time when I felt God's presence so clearly, when I was able to bear witness to the beauty that rises out of death. I spent most of the morning by his bedside Friday, writing him a little thank you note. I noticed a major change in him from the day before. He was breathing lightly. He was no longer moaning or wincing. It was almost like he was free of pain. As he slept, I sat there, watching, wrapped up in the mystery that surrounded me. A co-worker came in, and together, we gave him a gentle bed bath. Feeling his skin between my fingers was so intimate, so full of love, so powerful. As I moved his arm, his leg, his entire body, he peacefully obliged. Again, it seemed as though he was free from pain.

Early in the afternoon, our nurse came downstairs to find me. She said, "He is nearing the end. If it is important to you, and I know it is, you should go up to his room." I felt myself hesitate. I thought I could go to the bathroom first, but something inside of me pushed me and told me NO, you must go now. As I entered his room, I knelt at the foot of the bed and placed my hand on his foot. And that is where I remained until he took his last breath, and for many moments afterwards. 

He died peacefully, just as I had prayed all week. His breath slowly stopped and his heart slowly ceased beating. There was no groaning, no coughing, no evident pain. He so naturally died. My three friends and co-workers, entered the room after his death, and together we remembered. Balaji had his hand on our dear friend's leg and my hand in the other. My other hand rested inside Tina's while her other hand held Sam's. Together we mourned. Together we grieved. Together we remembered.

The mystery surrounded us in those moments. Where was he now that his spirit left his human body? We began to perform the Joseph's House rituals - lighting a candle by the bed, changing the body so the family can see him in all his beauty. As we changed him, we turned on the stereo near his bed. Bob Marley's "Redemption Song" began to play. The word freedom just kept repeating itself, and that was when I knew. My friend is now free. He has been carried to freedom. He has left this life for one of true freedom, true joy, singing his redemption song. The world lost a love-filled man, a teacher, a passionate human being, but we have gained a true angel. And for that...I am eternally grateful.

A Breaking Heart

In my first few weeks at Joseph's House, I have noticed that the current residents are not quite I expected. Though some are dying, they are still mobile and independent. For the most part, they do not need much assistance, other than providing them with their daily medications. Some are in a lot of pain, that we control with needed doses of morphine or methadone. But otherwise, I haven't really felt like I work at a hospice home...that is, until Monday.


One of our residents is an African-American man in his 50s who is dying from liver cancer. I still remember the day I met him - his smiling face, his ability to talk about practically anything, his humor, this instant sense of love he exudes. He has become a dear friend of mine. He always watches the Jets just so he can talk to me about them on Monday. He loves reggae - which I love so much. He has had adventures I can only dream of. He is like a father to me in some ways. He always checks to make sure I am ok. He endearingly calls me "Shorty" and loves the egg sandwiches I make for him. He tells me all the cool places to go in DC, but always cautions me not to get sucked into the tourist traps because I should never spend $4 on a hot dog. One night, when I worked 1-9pm, he made sure that my administrator let me take the van home so I wouldn't have to walk home by myself. I tell him I love him, and he always says he loves me back...and I know he means it.


Two weeks ago during staff meeting, we were talking about this dear friend of mine and updating each other on experiences we have had with him. I'm not sure what happened or what triggered my emotions, but I found myself with tears in my eyes, unable to speak, as I became aware of just how scared I am to see my friend die. It is not out of fear of not having him here with me; it is more a fear of having to watch him suffer. I wish that he wouldn't have to be in pain, that he wouldn't have to lose his continence, that he wouldn't have to become so weak that he couldn't walk. I witnessed over the past few weeks, his skin and the whites of his eyes becoming more yellow as jaundice took over. I listened as he began to forget simple things. I experienced his confusion when he asked if it was 3pm, when it was only 10am and we had just eaten breakfast. I watched as his appetite decreased and he nearly stopped eating. At the staff meeting that day, I was overcome with emotion as I became aware of my fear.


Right after the meeting, and a few days following, I found myself backing away from my friend. My fear was winning. It was taking over and pulling me away from a man who I have grown to love in such an amazing way. I had to convince myself that withdrawing from this friendship would help no one - neither him nor me. It would only hurt us both. I challenged myself to face my fear head on. I pushed myself to take those extra moments each day to just sit with him on the porch or to listen to some reggae upstairs in his room. I made him breakfast and lunch a number of times and always checked in to see how his pain level was.


Monday when I walked up the stairs to the front door, I felt an uneasiness within me. I walked inside and into the living room where my friend was sitting, asleep on the couch. I walked away, did a few things, and then went back to see him. I tried to wake him up, simply by saying his name. Usually, when he is asleep on the couch, it is easy to awaken him. This time, though, it took me touching his knee to bring him back. He looked at me with confusion in his eyes. Throughout the day, I witnessed as my friend began to decline. And now, I know, he is really dying.


My heart hurts. I cry often. Not because I cannot imagine being at Joseph's House without him....but because seeing him suffer breaks my heart in a way I have never experienced. Watching his body shake uncontrollably as he moves into sleep. Walking him to the bathroom, with my hands under his arms so that I can break his fall if need be. Standing in the bathroom with him as he barely makes it to the toilet. Having to change his pants, boxers, and give him his first pull-up diaper. Holding and tilting a cup of water to his mouth so he can swallow his pain medication. Seeing his brother's heart break, too. My heart is breaking while I watch the toll that alcoholism has on the body. My heart is breaking as I witness my friend dying from liver cancer. My heart is breaking....in a way that I cannot explain.


And this is why I am at Joseph's House.