WORDS THAT STICK IN MY CRAW
AN EXCERPT FROM THE MEMOIR, JUDGE ME, JUDGE ME NOT
Dad died in March of 1999. A year before his death, he was diagnosed with bone cancer. A few months later, he suffered kidney failure and was placed on dialysis. His medical condition required hospitalization. After he stabilized, he was moved to a soulless long-term care facility at “Saint Elsewhere.” Their patients were left to soil themselves rather than be helped to the toilet to protect their dignity. Changing a soiled bed pad was easier than assisting a resident to the bathroom.
Dad’s sea-green room, a rectangular box shared with another man who lay staring at the ceiling, was furnished with minimum-care metal beds and painted pine dressers. A polyester curtain dangled from the ceiling and separated the sleeping areas. Two metal visitor chairs stood rigid against a wall.
Many times, during my visits, I observed attendants being derelict in their care of patients. I’d seen Dad press the call light to get assistance for the bathroom. The attendant who came turned off the red light and said someone else would come soon. No one came until I rang for help a second time. One evening, Dad fell trying to get to the toilet by himself. He fractured a bone in his leg. His ring for help hadn’t been answered.
Saint Elsewhere dispirited me. The halls were lined with the shells of people who sat motionless in wheelchairs, their facial masks frozen in time, their hands propped up on pillows, their sightless eyes transfixed on doors and windows. They were waiting for death.
Dad remained bedridden for three months before the end. Mother stayed with him each day from morning ’til night. Most days she was his only visitor. On occasion, a friend or two from Dad’s church dropped by for a wave. The pastor and assistant pastor stopped by on their weekly rounds and prayed with him.
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Three days a week, Dad was taken across town to a dialysis clinic. Mother always went with him. At noon on those days, I joined them and took Mother to lunch. Leaving Dad alone in the dialysis chair made me heavy-hearted. I wanted to liberate him from the maze of straps and plastic tubing that criss-crossed his body and take him with me.
One time when we were alone together at the clinic, he seemed unusually preoccupied. He fixed his eyes away from me over the rows of burgundy dialysis chairs and kept glancing at the circular wall clock. He scraped his black dress shoes nervously against the footrest as he endured the treatment. Thirty minutes passed before he said anything. His heavy breaths broke the silence.
Then he twisted toward me in his chair, pulling the hookup tubing to its full length. “The saddest day of my life was when you told me you were a homosexual.”
There. It was out. I knew he’d suffered from my disclosure, but I had no way of knowing how much. I sensed his torment by the stress marks on his face, on his lack of animation, and his heavy silences whenever I began to talk about my life. It distressed me to believe I’d been the cause of his misery, but I was powerless to change the truth.
Twenty-four years later, his words still haunt me.
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Judge Me, Judge Me Not is now available stateside from Amazon Books.
