Unpredictable Days

Recently in one of my psychology classes a woman came in as a guest speaker and talked to us about Death. It was a fascinating night, in that we approached a subject I rarely talk about or hear talked about in big groups. It got me thinking about midwifery and how I plan to devote my life to the opposite side of the spectrum- yet how closely birth straddles that invisible line, and how, unfortunately the other side occasionally wins. I began to think that in order to become a comprehensive midwife, I must understand, or know death on a more intimate level.
This is not a prayer I intend on praying, but I was well aware of an opportunity which had presented itself of which I had initially ignored.
One of our volunteers at AAA dropped by my office two weeks ago to let me know my client was in the hospital. It didn't surprise me, this client was incredibly unpredictable. I had weekly updates of other places she had been spotted; on the street corner at 2 a.m. or sleeping in a ditch on the side of a busy intersection midday. She would visit me at work and ask me why I wasn't finding her a job. I explained that we had some serious barriers to tear down before she would be considered employable. She accused me of playing favorites with the other African women in her apartment complex, that I spent all my time working with them, bringing them to interviews and job fairs. I told her I would be in her area the next Thursday, if she could put together some of the clothes I gave her in to an acceptable looking outfit and could be ready on time WEARING THEM, she was welcome.
I didn't need to knock on her door the day of the job fair, it was wide open and i could see her lounging on her couch waiting for me. I poked my head in. "Hey Dorris."
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. "Kacie, I'm coming." I waited outside while she gathered a purse and slipped on some shoes. But I could already tell this was a bad idea. Somehow between the time we had talked and this day she had lost the majority of her hair and developed a severe rash all over her face. The rash was raised and unsightly, millions of wart-like projections freckling it's entirety.
When she walked out she put her hand flat against her cheek. "My face is troubling me." She said, cringing at what lay beneath.
"Your outfit looks nice." I said, trying to stress a positive.
"Yes, thank you, but my face." She covered her patchy tufts of hair with a flimsy white ball cap which had fluorescent pink writing scrawled across its perimeter. I couldn't tell what it said because it was tagged and undecipherable.
Needless to say the job fair did not go over well. I made connections with employers of hotels, security agencies, and restaurants. Each time I shook a hand Dorris came up from behind in her gangster hat and ruined any impression I may have made. At every booth she claimed to the Human Resources staff she had 15 years or more experience in that field, so that by the time we had left I calculated her age as 215.
I was caught off-guard, completely unsure of what to do. I wanted to tell her to wait outside, that the fate of so many worthy qualified refugees hung delicately in the impressions made during this hour. The other women I had brought were ideal; they networked, asked relevant questions, smiled, and handed out their resumes. They looked professional.
But Dorris. I wanted to love her but it was just hard.
I had determined by the end of that day that Dorris had definite mental issues which needed attending to before any other step in the job search arena would take place. I told her this and she disagreed. She said her mental issues were arising because of being unemployed. Being unemployed was driving her crazy.
In less than a month she flooded her apartment, got kicked out, lost her sons to the system, and went to the streets. Pastor Dan (AAA volunteer) kept a watch on her, offering assistance in needed areas, but she refused.
I called him to see if he had visited her in the hospital yet, and to find out why exactly she was there.
"Yeah, I saw her. She's not doing well. Have you gone? It looks like she might have a few days left."
"In the hospital?"
"No. A few days until she dies. She's dying."
I was well aware of her health status, of her testing positive for HIV. I didn't know how serious it had progressed. I was also well aware that she had no support system in San Diego, besides her two beautiful teenage boys who were now in foster homes. This was her fault, her utter aloneness. Many people had reached out to Dorris, attempting to include her and incorporate her back in to a healthy lifestyle through groups, friendships, church. She walked away from it all, rather bluntly and ungraciously- telling people, including myself, that we were useless.
But the thought of dying alone in a hospital bed in a foreign city haunted me, and I felt drawn to visit her. "This is the result of the life she chose to live." I'd snap back to the part that wanted to go. Time was ticking, and a dying person only needs comfort for so long. "She's only a few blocks away from your house." The comforter would say. "Go. She needs someone."
One of the most moving and influential lines my pastor has ever preached often echoes in my decision-making process, and reminds me of what it means to live a life that is truly counterculture, a life that resembles the heart of God.
"Grace" he reminded us "does not ask how you got yourself in to this. Grace always chooses love."
So I went. And when I asked for her at the front desk, I found out she had given either me or them an alias. She wasn't the name I had been calling her.
I took the elevator to the 7th floor and checked in with the nurse. "Go down to room 704 she's in there." The lack of enthusiasm streaming from this woman's voice made me hope we'd never become future coworkers.
I noticed a huge sign strung across Dorris's entryway that said "STOP. ANY PERSON ENTERING THIS ROOM MUST WEAR PROTECTIVE GEAR. GOGGLES AND FACE MASK ARE MANDATORY."
I thought it odd the nurse didn't mention anything. "Um!" I yelled to her down the hall, pointing at the sign.
"Oh ya. Gotta do it." She replied, staring at her computer.
I walked back over to her and in a low voice asked "Can you please tell me why I am doing this?"
"Cause the sign says. I don't know honey. You can find another nurse somewhere around here and ask. I think the patient spits or something? I don't really know."
Dorris spitting on people did not surprise me. For half a second I had a romantic vision of her appreciating my visit and not spitting on me, but that quickly dissolved in to an image of a loogie dripping down my face. "Okay, I'll put it on."
By the time a nice helpful young man had finished tying all my stray ties and got my face mask put on securely, the only part of my body that was visible were my eyes. I felt like I was about to handle kryptonite.
The t.v. was set to a talk show, and she was staring blankly in to the screen registering nothing. I walked in and she turned her head slowly in my direction. I pulled up a stool on wheels and sat next to her side. When I spoke, my voice reverberated in my face mask and filled the pocket with heat and humidity. I wasn't sure she could recognize me with no smile. "It's me, Kacie." I said, reaching out my gloved hand and touching her arm.
"Kelsey. I remember."
I turned towards the television and took turns alternating my attention to daytime drama and real life drama. Dorris was not talkative, which I had expected. I was told her sons had visited her once and she refused to say a word to them. They left without a sentence exchanged.
"Please put that Ensure in to the waste basket for me." She motioned her arm towards the tray filled with bottles of Ensure. I knew she was probably expected to finish some, and being monitored by the nurses of any progress. I told her I couldn't, I was just there to visit, to say hello. "Please put it in the waste basket."
"Later. I'll do it later."
"Okay."
I wanted to address my get-up, I felt so awkward. "So the nurses say you spit, so I had to put all this on."
She moved a thick wad of phlegm between her cheeks and nodded.
"How are you?" I asked, suddenly realizing and wondering if this is a stupid question to ask somebody dying.
"Terrible." She mumbled, through her full cheeks.
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
"This place is terrible. Hand me that towel."
I passed her a white hospital towel, the same I use to wipe down a laboring mothers sweaty brow. She struggled to bring it to her mouth, so I helped while she spit the contents of saliva she had accumulated in to the rag. It was a dark yellow.
"This place is terrible. Really terrible."
I know how to be around a woman in labor. You must slow yourself down. You must become the ultimate listener and be okay with silence. Silence is crucial. I began to pretend Dorris was birthing. It made the room more comfortable when I did this, I was able to hear her and not worry about offering a solution.
"Why is it so terrible?" I asked.
"The nurses. This hospital. All of it is ruining me."
"Has anybody visited you?" I asked.
"Nobody."
I looked over at a balloon that was floating halfway between life and death as well. It said, I Love You.
"Nobody?"
"How is everybody, all of the people, Dan and Kristen and everyone?"
"They are doing well. Everyone is very busy. A lot of refugees coming in still, but we haven't gotten any from Nigeria. How are your people? Your sons?"
She swiveled her head to the side. "This place... my sons came last week to visit me and the hospital stole my voice. I couldn't speak when they were here but when they left I was fine. I could talk again. I couldn't talk to my boys. I am telling you Kacie this place is horrible."
"Hm."
We sat silently again, for awhile, and then she ordered me to hand her the Ensure. I didn't move so she reached her body over, grabbed it and threw it across the room in to the trashcan missing completely and spilling the chocolate liquid on my shoes and over the floor.
I pretended nothing happened.
I wanted to say nice things to her, to change the feeling of the room and lift her state. I told her about a beautiful song I had stuck in my head that morning, I taught her the words and we sung it together. It sounded awful, but we smiled and sang and she opened up for a moment.
"Kacie. I am not a monster."
I grabbed her hand, and said "I know Dorris, nobody thinks you are a monster."
"I am not a monster, Kacie."
When I looked down and saw my glove and my body suit and felt the mask on my face I couldn't repeat the reassuring words. I was dressed as if she was a monster. I wanted to take it all off, to remove my face mask and let us share smiles, but I couldn't. I didn't trust her.
"I AM NOT A MONSTER!"
I squeezed her hand and said something I always feel but that usually does not come out of my mouth. "You are a beautiful child of God."
The next few minutes I watched as a spiritual war began to ravage her. Quietly and softly she would remind herself "I am a beautiful child of God. I am a beautiful child of God." But momentary peace would give way to angst, and little crys, and uncertainty as she forcefully stated that she was not a monster. I sat by her bed and watched and prayed and then I started crying. My eye shield fogged up and splashed with tears and she grabbed my hand and asked why I was crying.
"I don't know. I just need to cry." I said.
"I need to cry too."
My tears quickly dried and hers never came, but we sat together while the Ensure began to puddle around the feet of my stool. She tried to spit another mouthful in to the same towel but it missed and dropped on to the breast of her hospital gown. While she wiped herself up I told her my garden was blooming with sweatpeas and that I would pick some and bring her a bouquet. I wanted her to remember beauty. She said she would like that, and would also like it if I could bring her a Bible so she could read during the time she was there. I said of course.
A week has passed and I have trimmed 3 bouquets of sweatpeas from my garden. My mother took one, I gave one to my sister-in-law, and my neighbor got the last one. I haven't been able to put any in my house where I usually keep them because a bouquet now carries just as much aesthetic appeal as it does of the nagging reminder of a promise I made.
Time is going. Death is uncomfortable. A deteriorating body and a spirit like hers are difficult to face, but the sweatpeas are prolific and I do intend to keep this promise.