Dead Man Walking

My ex girlfriend, Stevie, had to shower me for several months after my accident…

I couldn’t walk, let alone stand up in a shower. Even if I could have managed getting into the shower, it wouldn’t have mattered as my right hand, thanks to nerve damage, was completely lifeless, and my left was hardly any better.

Shower at last!!!

Stevie, much younger than I, played the part that no nurse had in the three months I resided in the hospital system had. Yes, that’s correct, I had not had a shower, not even a sponge bath, over the entirety of my stay at UNMH. This was undoubtedly appalling to a woman who took meticulous pride in her hygiene, yet she didn’t once complain about my lack thereof. My first shower felt as though I had just climbed out of the sewers of Shawshank prison.

But after the bliss of that first shower, and despite having to do nothing but allow a gorgeous woman to rub her hands all over my body, I began to loathe all subsequent “spa treatments”. It wasn’t that I wasn’t appreciative of the effort Stevie was clearly making, nor was it painful or inconvenient. I hated showering because it was a reminder that I couldn’t do anything for myself.

I remember one shower in particular, in which Stevie was scrubbing my back, and I could do nothing but limply wrap my arms around her and cry. Stevie never asked me why I was crying, but I think she always knew the cause. She just held me tightly and let me sob in her arms.

That’s a memory I had shoved deep into the recesses of wherever the mind stores things that you want to forget. Until today.

I thought he was drunk. He kept stumbling and losing his balance as he slowly made his way around the 1/6 mile stretch of walkway that circled the perimeter of our local pond. He would flail his arms in an almost swimming motion as if he were willing himself from falling, but he kept going to the ground. Three times he fell, before I arose from my park bench at Ashley Pond, tugged at Chewey, and approached what looked to me to be an eastern Indian man who looked, at first glance, to be homeless.

He wore black jogging pants with a white vertical stripe on each leg, mountain climbing shoes, a maroon t-shirt, and a grey golfers hat, all of which looked like they were two weeks overdue for a spin cycle. As he sat on the pavement, again, I asked him if he “needed help?”

His thick accent made his reply unintelligible, but after he slowed down, and after I reciprocated, I was able to understand that he needed to make his way to the public restroom on the other side of the pond.

Me: “Do you need a hand getting there?”

Him: “Oh yes please”

I helped him stand, and offered him my arm as a makeshift crutch. We made our way to the restroom, slowly, VERY slowly. During this thirty second walk turned ten minutes, I was able to ascertain that this man was not drunk at all, but rather quite ill.

His name was Biraj, and he was from Nepal. He had been a posdoctoral research assistant at the same national lab I worked. He had moved to Los Alamos from Missouri, where he had obtained his PhD, almost three years earlier. But what started promising in the land of enchantment, turned dark and cruel for Biraj. In the last year he had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, lost his job, lost his insurance, and then eventually lost his wife, leaving him when caring for him was detrimental to her career trajectory.

We arrived to the public restroom where I assured him I would wait for him to take him to his desired destination when he was finished.

Upon exiting the restroom, I did as I had promised him and continued my crutch duties until we reached the destination he was striving so mightily for, but not before having to pick him up from three additional stumbles along the way.

“That’s my car, if you can just help me to the door”, he said.

I asked “you drove here!? How!? Why!?”

Biraj: “I do not live far from here, and I was feeling much better when I drove here. I am so lonely, I just wanted to be where other people were” (he said, through the first of many tears he would shed in the next couple of hours)

Me: “I can’t let you drive. It wouldn’t be safe for you, or for others. Let me drive you home”

Biraj: “Oh that is very kind of you”

In the ten minute car ride I was able to further glean that Biraj was 41, six years my younger and looking every bit of ten years my elder. He had a 9 year-old daughter. An elderly mother still in Nepal, and no one else. No friends he could call or text. He had been banned by our local grocery store when a mid-level manager mistook his inability to walk in a straight line for public drunkenness.

Then we arrived at his apartment. As I escorted him to his place, feeling a sense of relief that he was at least on the first level, he stumbled backwards as we attempted to negotiate the two steps leading to his front door (more tears). I took his key and unlocked the door, pushing it open to find the stuff of cat-lady nightmares.

My first thought? No one on this planet has done anything bad enough to deserve to live like this. I wanted to join Biraj in his sobbing.

I went back to him, now sitting on the grass near his porch, picked him up and escorted him to his only sitting space, a small black futon that had food stains, or at least I hoped they were food stains, all over it. As I sat him down, he began to cry some more.

I asked him if he needed anything immediately, such as food or water. He requested some water. His sink was filled with dishes, probably unused since their initial use. He informed me that his tap water was contaminated and asked if I could pour him some water from the large 5-gallon jug which sat on his countertop. I looked at the large jug and asked if he could pour the water himself when no one was around to assist, due to his inability to use his arms. He responded, "It takes quite some time, and I have to place the cup on the floor and tip the jug over on the counter to let it spill into my cup".

Self-involved much?

To be honest, I wanted to leave abruptly, and without any pleasantries. It wasn't that I didn't want to help him - I did. But being in that apartment stirred a nauseating feeling within me. It wasn't due to the stench or the dismal living conditions, but the stark realization of how trivial my personal "issues" seemed by comparison. Seeing this man, in this moment and place, made me recoil at my own self-centered complaints.

Then he hit me with it…

Biraj: “I know this is a terrible thing to ask, but do you know of anyone that would be willing to kill me? I cannot go on like this. I am dying anyway and just know that I would be happier if I died now”

Me (in stunned disbelief, and yet also in total understanding of his request): “Biraj. I don’t know what to say. Please don’t ask me something like that. Please don’t even think something like that”

Biraj apologized and asked if I would sit with him for a while.

We sat there and talked for almost an hour. I don’t really remember what we talked about. What I remember is looking at Chewey. His eyes were fixed on Biraj for almost the entire time the two humans spoke. He had this look of total sympathy on his fury face and his eyes were sad. Then Chewey walked to Biraj, who had slipped off of his loose fitting hiking boots, and he began licking Biraj’s big toe. And for the first time since I had walked into Biraj’s life, he smiled.

A few moments later I shook Biraj’s hand, gave him my phone number, and told him I’d check on him tomorrow to see if he needed anything. Chewey and I then began our long walk home. I cried the entire way.

The image of unconditional love?

 Before leaving, I had assured Biraj that I would reach out to the Medicaid representative he had been working with, as he could no longer type the phone number given to him by the rep. I wasn’t sure if, due to HIPAA laws, they would even speak to me, but the man I reached was incredibly kind and was as informative as he could be, guaranteeing that Biraj would be receiving full benefits within the week.

As I hung up the phone, and after I texted Biraj the good news, I sat, stared, and marveled at the unconditional love my little man showed in that moment. It’s something I’ll never forget, and something I will always strive to emulate.