3 am and he is sobbing
and will not be comforted
wrapped in hospital white and stiff
sheets, laying in the dark.
the nurses call me--I am the chaplain
on duty. They say, "he's in pain.
but it is not physical. Come."
and I enter a room with "universal
precautions;" I refuse to put on
the mask or the gown. I break
the rules and sit on his bed.
I hold him as he continues to
sob and wail and sob some more.
Eventually, I cry too. I am wailing.
Our tears meet on the bed; they
mix and in this moment we
are one--he, the rejected and
abandoned; me, the preacher
with nothing worth saying in this
moment. He's the son of a Baptist
preacher who has told him he
was dead to him because he loved
his brother-lover, who himself has
abandoned him. "I can't watch
another friend die from AIDS," his
lover said as he walked out the door.
And now, the man in my arms tells
me that I am the first skin-to-skin
contact he has had in 4 years--of
compassion, of care. And we cry
some more. Between the grief and
silence, he weaves a story I
don't want to hold, but must,
just like I hold him. Two hours
later, he tells me he wants
his mama and his siblings, but
they are afraid of his Baptist
preacher daddy who has forbidden
them at threat of also being
abandoned and rejected. And
we sit in tears and silence
for another hour. I hold him
closer, his head just below
my breasts, our breaths in
sync now. I do not shush him
because I know how long
these sobs have been
in the making, how much he
has held in, how often he
has blamed himself. This
early morning, I pray he vomits
it all out, that the infection of
hate, of rejection, of condemnation
will leave his body, his mind, his soul.
I pray and hold him and sit shiva
for all he's lost and will lose. But
mostly I bear witness to the tears--
the much needed tears that
continue. And we cry today.
I want a different world for us
both, as I squeeze him closer.
So does he. In this moment,
this carved out time, we are
together. Family. Friend.
Lovers. Holding on. Grieving.
Believing. We are humans.
Crying. Needfully crying.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 1, 2013
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