Bed 32 at Kalighat is near the front door, easily reachable by doctors, nurses or other volunteers giving care. Susan had been caring for the young man who currently occupied Bed 32, and she was aided by a tall, thin German volunteer with dreadlocks. The two of them gave extra care and attention to this young man. Since I'm exclusively in the women's ward, I hadn't any interaction over in the men's ward. While in the lobby/commons area of Kalighat, I would look over periodically to see Susan and the German caring for Bed 32. He was suffering from renal failure and his body was starting to shut down. There was not much that anyone could do except to make him comfortable.
It was closing in on Noon, which is when the volunteers must leave as the patients take naps and the sisters eat lunch. At about 11:45am I walked into the commons area near the men's ward where Susan caught my eye; she walked over to gently usher me to the men's ward. "Denise, I have a quick appointment I must keep at Noon. Would you mind sitting with this dear man until I get back? It will only be 30 minutes." Susan was really attached to this young man, and she had done everything she could to help him. "Uh, ok . . . do I do anything special?" I asked Susan. "No, dear, just sit with him, please." So all of the volunteers shuffled out the door, the doors were shut, and all of the sisters except two or three went upstairs for lunch. It became very quiet and I sat down next to this young man in Bed 32.
I noticed his breathing was clipped: he would take in a gasp of air once every ten seconds or so, and it looked as if it took a lot of effort. I held his hand and every once in awhile I stroked his hair. I knew nothing about this man, except that he looked about 26 or 27 years old. Where did he come from? What is his family like? How did he become sick, I wondered.
About fifteen minutes later I was still holding his hand and wondering about his life. It was then that he opened his eyes and looked at me. A tear rolled down his face, whether from simply watering of the eyes or a genuine tear. I smiled and wiped away the tear for him. Then he closed his eyes. The gasping breaths stopped and his chest didn't move anymore. I sat there still holding his hand for what seemed like an eternity, wondering what had just happened. I searched for a pulse, no luck. I put my ear up to his mouth to check for breath, none to be found.
I called for Sister Georgina to come over, as I wasn't sure what was going on. She sat next to me to check the young man. Then she softly said, "Oh, he is gone, my dear." I looked down and his lips were already cold-ish and losing redness. I then stared at her for a moment and said, "But Sister, I wasn't supposed to be here. Susan was taking care of him, he knew her face, not mine . . . she was supposed to be here with him." Sister Georgina smiled and said, "You were chosen to be here, and you gave him love and comfort. He is in Heaven now telling God about you." Sister Georgina patted my back and walked away. I looked back at him and burst into tears.
I was the last person that he saw on this earth. Why me? It wasn't supposed to be me. He knew Susan and benefited from her wonderful care. I was just some schmoe that was grabbed at the last second. I wasn't weeping because I was sad over his death, per se; he had been suffering and death brought relief. It was something else . . . the shock and surrealism of watching life leave his body, but also that I hope I didn't disappoint him in his last minutes. Did he feel loved and supported enough?
The idea is for those who are dying within the fold of the Missionaries of Charity, volunteers and sisters are there to give care, dignity and love to the patients . . . that they won't die alone. The young man in Bed 32 wasn't alone when he died. I was there. And the outright honor of that role was overwhelming.
I continued to sit with him, holding his hand and weeping for another fifteen minutes. Susan then walked in the door to see my red face, "I'm so sorry, Susan," was all I could utter. We hugged and cried until some of the moschis (the full-time Indian workers) came over to cover him.
We lose about 2-3 people a week at Kalighat, sometimes less, sometimes more. This one was obviously different for me. I write this with great difficulty, as I still feel tremendously unworthy of the honor of being beside this man, holding his hand as he left this world. He suffered a great deal, to be sure, and I'm so grateful he was brought to Kalighat and not forgotten. I am not sure if Sister Georgina's comments are theologically sound, but if he is in fact in Heaven and talking to God about me, I hope he puts in a good word, and maybe if nothing else, even a funny "Hey, thanks for the cute blonde."
