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.