The Whispered Name

           

All distinguishing demographic elements of my patient have been changed in a way that s/he would be unidentifiable. In no way, do his/her race, ethnicity, gender, or other distinguishing features match accurately with the patient I remember. In this way, his/her privacy will be preserved but s/he can also be celebrated.

            I was the last person on the planet that loved him; I know this for a fact. There was no memorial and I am unsure of what Hospice did with his cremated remains after his passing. He left behind three jackets, two pairs of jeans, a couple t-shirts, a framed poster of a morena with long black hair bending over a bike with no clothes on, wilted lilies, and a bracelet—all of which he treasured. For a few months afterwards, I would type his name into Google and hope that something came up that said he had a family or someone that mourned his death. Now, I know that typing in his name only gets me a bio for an Australian tap dancer and a Nike designer.

            When he was given the diagnoses, they moved him off of the streets, where he had been living for fifteen years, and into an adult foster home where a small Filipino woman and her son were the primary caretakers for four lonely dying adults. The caretakers were reported later for neglect—bed sheets would remain unchanged after someone had soiled them, food went uncooked, and the house was so cold that even with two thick jackets I was compelled to roll into a ball and shiver. In the farthest room was a ninety-six year old woman that was convinced the terrier talked to her, the next room was a black man that refused to wear pink and was proud that he went to PSU—that’s all I ever learned about him because it is all he ever talked about—the room closest to my patient was a smoker that was always on the porch with a cigarette and a chocolate bar.

            The first day I came to visit, I introduced myself as a hospice volunteer and the little Filipino woman said, “For who?” It had never occurred to me that there was a place where those that were dying without a friend or family member could go to die together. At the time, my patient was still mobile and had an appetite for both food and Western movies. We would spend our time together watching black and whites where men shot things and jumped on moving trains. However, as weeks passed his health declined rapidly. Our visits filled with conversation and laughter began to end. I no longer heard stories about his childhood in Spain with a gypsy mother and an absent father, he tired of recounting stories from Vietnam where he was a sniper, and the words that we use to share became overwhelmed by a moan that was so horrible that if I close my eyes and picture his face, it is the only sound that I can hear.

            Most days, I would find him rolled into his bed clutching his stomach crying, “mi higádo, my liver”. On these days, I would rub his back. He would bury his head so deeply into the pillow that sometimes I wondered if I was rubbing the back of a sleeping man or a dead one. Sometimes, he would ask me to comb his thick, long, black hair. I would brush it back into a ponytail and he would smile at his reflection until his liver began to throb and then he would cry. Once, his gypsy eyes spotted a painted bracelet someone had given me at a conference. “I love jewelry” he smiled. I took it off and gently placed it on his wrist. His wrist moved lifelessly and the bracelet jingled to a comfortable place. From then on, whenever I came to visit, he was wearing the bracelet proudly.

            As Easter approached, I told him that I would be gone for a week and we said our goodbyes with finality. Having been trained to not show more emotion than a patient, I waited until I got to my car to let myself cry. I imagined him dying while I was gone and no one knowing until they finally came to change his sheets, I cried for his hair that wouldn’t be combed in my absence, and most of all, my tears tried to give him back the dignity that he was losing with his dying process. Before flying home, I bought a bouquet of lilies and left them on his porch with a note that said, “I’ll be back in seven days. Don’t wait up but know we’ll meet again”.

            To my surprise, he did wait. After arriving back in Portland, I went from the airport immediately to visit him. When I walked into his room, I found him as I had left him, tucked in to his bed—painfully—his body facing the wall. I tiptoed in to the room, not wanting to disturb him, and peered over his shoulder maternally. I gently began to move his hair from his eyes, massaged his temples, and told him I was back and so happy to see him. Turning towards me, I saw his eyes smile. “Mano” he said, and I gave him my hand. His bracelet slid down his thinning wrists and with a firm squeeze and a deep breathe, he peacefully died with a friend.

            I am unsure if I will ever have a relationship that is so profound. I sat in the room holding his hand for a few moments finding the lilies wilted on his bedside table and his sheets spoiled underneath him. Knowing that privacy for the patient would be protected by HIPPA, I understood that his name would never be said out loud again. When hospice staff came to collect his body and they filled out all the charts, his patient ID number would be used instead. In short, his name would be forgotten. I would be the last person to say his name, the only person to know it. I tried to memorize the lines on his face and tearfully withdrew my hand to call hospice to pick up my dead friend. It has been two years now but on cold days, or lonely ones, I sometimes go back to my room and put the blankets over my head. In a faint whisper I repeat his name knowing that even if the rest of the world will forget, the silent universe will be reminded my friend once lived.