Philosphers of Death

When I visited Philly in the nursing home, I liked to sit next to her. She in her wheel chair, me in a hard backed wooden one. I told her I loved her. I liked to touch her, stroke her hands with cream, brush her hair, feel her cheeks still smooth even though she was so old. After a year or two there, she didn’t speak much anymore. We communicated through the osmosis of touch which she received like a flower opening to a forgotten Spring sun and sometime returned with a squeeze of my hand. She closed her eyes and smile when I combed her purposeful white hair, told her how beautiful her hands were. Her legs no longer ached from the diabetes which was under control. She had a peace about her that was very comforting like a warm stone on my back.

It was hard for the mind to wander far when in such place. The strong smells, surprising bursts of speech, the gaze which looked through walls. One woman who used to be a neighbor but now was deep into the throes and disorientation of Alzheimer disease was strapped to her chair. She might raise a hand to touch some invisible flower in front of her face. But there were no longer smiles.

The flock of Jamaican women who tended to patients bodily needs with calm and humor amazed. How could we even begin to thank them for what they did? (Surely, we can find ways to pay them more - we being society here who pays billions of dollars to men who make widgets but can afford no more than minimum wage to people who tend to the dying.) Afterall, these caregivers are shepherds of death, comforters in eye of that storm, artists and philosophers of the intimate realities of the body in decay.

What is the point of being here if not to care for each other? What other possible reason is there?