The only thing I had to give

The week before Christmas, my friend and I went to visit another who is in hospice care at the Veteran’s Hospital in Long Beach.

Our friend was diagnosed with bladder cancer a few years back and, though he underwent surgeries and treatments, his time here with us is drawing to a close.  Our visit was made so we could say goodbye.

The visit was difficult, at best.  First, as we walked the halls, attempting to find his room, I saw dozens of other veterans who were alone in their beds or sitting in common areas; all wearing pajamas or other “hospital” garb, either watching the TV or just staring off in one direction or another.  No one was talking.

Some looked at us as we passed.  I was immediately struck with the thought that I wanted to say something to them.  Besides the fact that I didn’t know them, nor did I want to intrude, I was at a complete loss as to what I would say.  But if I made eye contact with anyone, I simply nodded.  Some nods were returned.  Some just continued staring.

I was there to, one last time, visit my dying friend.  Yet, as we searched for his room, I was overcome with the thought that I owed each of these men a debt of gratitude I could never repay.

Now available in Paperback and for Kindle!

Some, I am sure, served in times of peace, others in times of war.  Yet they had all served our country, our citizens, my family… me.  Besides being overwhelmed with this sudden onslaught of emotion, how does one walk up to a total stranger—one who is obviously dying—and begin a conversation?  How would that be received?  Should I have done it anyway?  It was too much for me to process as we were walking and looking for our friend’s room.

When we found him, he was asleep.  Neither of us woke him and we stood, silently for a few moments.  A nurse came in to check on him and said, “Hey!  You’ve got visitors!”  He woke up and struggled to focus, then recognized us and said he was happy to see us.

Due to his pain medication, he drifted in and out of consciousness for the next half-hour or so.  When used for pain relief, morphine dulls the receptors in your brain that register pain, and enhances the receptors that register pleasure.  More times that not, the patient still feels pain, but it doesn’t bother them as much.  Side-effects, however, include drowsiness and hallucinations.  So, I wondered if he really knew were were there.

He began conversations and drifted off to sleep in mid-sentence.  A few minutes later he’d wake up, talking, again in mid-sentence, about something completely different.

His wife came in to check on us.  I turned to give her a quick hug, but she grabbed on to me and hugged more tightly than I expected.  I realized her need for support and returned her hug for quite a few seconds.   Our friend was not the only one in pain here.  After quick greetings, she thanked us for making the trip to visit him, then left us and, I hope, used that time to rest herself.

Lunch came for our friend and we helped him eat.  So sad to watch him try and choke down a few bites, sometimes falling asleep while chewing.  Time passed painfully slowly as we watched him doze, then, sometimes, wince in pain.  Awful to watch someone suffer.  Yet while time crawled, it also sped rapidly towards that inevitable moment when we’d have to say goodbye for the final time.

When it came, I shook his hand and said goodbye.  He held tightly and took my buddy’s hand with his left.  He looked at each of us and softly said, “I’ll never see you guys again…”  All we could do was choke back a lump in our throats and hold his hands and smile.

He then grew very stern.  He looked at both of us then said, “You jerks!  You’re supposed to say, ‘No!  We’ll be here ’round the clock!  We’re just setting up the schedule now!  We’re gonna set up a tent right there in the hallway!'”  We all laughed and I left my two friends alone to say a private goodbye.  They’d known each other longer than I had.

I waited in the hall for a few moments, then the two of us walked to my car and, in the pouring rain, drove a long, quiet drive back to the desert.

During the drive I thought about what, if anything I could have said to these men.  The past few years, whenever the opportunity presents itself, I have shaken hands with members of the military or veterans and said, “Thank you for my freedom.”  I began doing that on December 8, 2001, in Honolulu, Hawaii, to the veterans who had returned to Pearl Harbor for the 60th anniversary of the day they survived the attack which began World War II for the United States.

The day following the ceremonies, many were strolling the shopping district with their wives and, when I made eye contact with one, I extended my hand and offered my thanks.  Their responses varied from an enthusiastic “Thank you, young man!” to nods with tears welling in their eyes.  After my first few meetings, I made the rest of my morning about greeting as many of these men as I could.

As I said, I have carried this with me since, trying to thank as many veterans and current military personnel as possible.

Yet that day I was bothered at the loneliness of those forgotten men in the VA Hospital.  And, perhaps, referring to them all as forgotten is projection on my part, but there are plenty of forgotten heroes in this world, so my empathy, I think, was well-founded.

I wish I had known what to say.  I wish I could have done something… something more than nod.

Then I recalled my friend’s wife hugging me; how she held on for that little bit of extra lingering human contact.  I think that my returned hug—all that I had to give at that moment—was exactly what she needed.

I recalled people coming up to me or phoning right after my Father passed away.  They each said, “I wish there was something I could do…”  I knew that there was nothing that could be done, but tried to tell each of them that the fact that they were there, the fact that they made the contact with me, to tell me they cared, was exactly the best thing they could do… exactly what I needed.

Mother Teresa of Calcutta once said, “Don’t be overwhelmed with the numbers.  Just help who you can and start with the person nearest to you.”

I then remembered someone saying that Jesus has helped millions but never gave money.

Perhaps all I have to give in this world is a piece of myself… a smile, a laugh, a hug…  Perhaps that’s what we all need more than anything right now…

I wish I could have done more than just nod to those men that day.  But a nod was all I had at that moment to repay the tremendous debt of gratitude I have for the sacrifices they and others have made.

Following are three videos I created in honor of our service men and women and our veterans…