This particular Monday morning is my first visit with you, James. I am greeted at the door of a spacious adult care home by the daytime caregiver. We introduce ourselves and she takes me to your room.  

Your eyes are closed, James, and you did not stir at the sound of your name.  Even so, I tell you who I am and ask your permission to bathe you and freshen your linens. The caregiver helps me gather all that I need. Once ready, she offers to stay with me. She informs me that you can sometimes become violent and lash out. She is surprised how calm you remain, unresistant to my touch in washing you, even your face. I thank the caregiver and tell her she can leave. I am not afraid. We will be fine. 

She leaves and I continue to call you by name, speaking softly as I bathe your body. Nearly every inch of you is rubbed raw, seeping, weeping, infected, or on the verge of infection. Muscle has atrophied, shrinking skin over bones that I can count in a glance. I tell you what I am doing at each step and apologize if anything causes you pain. You do not make a sound. You do not stir. It is as if my words somehow soothe your spirit and the warm water soothes your body.

When I finish, I thank you, James, for allowing me to care for you today and say I will return in a few days. And I do come back. This time I am alone with you from the start. Your facial features have softened, even relaxed. Death will do that sometimes. AIDS-ravaged your physical being and tortured your soul. Death has released you at last.

Today I bathe you one last time for your final journey. Again, I ask your permission and speak softly, telling you what I am doing at each step. Today I am comforted in the certainty I am not causing you any pain now. I remind you, James, you have dignity and worth no matter what life has dealt you. Our world is a better place because of you.  

I thank you one last time for allowing me to care for you. Thank you for having touched my life. Your suffering reached into my soul, deepening my compassion, reminding me how suffering is a part of our common humanity. You and I are not so different really. Death will claim us both.  

I take your hand in mine and remind you one last time. You mattered.

Sheila Barnes’ passion is walking with others on their inner journey. She has discovered this happens in the midst of being a teacher, administrator, pastoral associate, retreat director, campus minister, hospice worker, as well as in the more formal setting of spiritual direction. Sheila may be reached at barnessh@comcast.net.