Another God

CW: Hate speech

Another God

Letters to Lundy:

Whenever Daddy’s squeaky truck pulled into the driveway from work, fear washed over me like being doused with a pitcher of ice water. I never knew what personality would come through the back door. Whether he was angry, rearing to lash out, preoccupied with other things or a fake sort of candy man; I could never guess which mixed-bag-of-a-man we were facing. But it would be foolish to count on the least merriment, or let my guard down. You, on the other hand, gave him a clean slate and a blinking smile every time you saw him. You never brought up bad things he did to us, as if with every new day, hurtful things just rolled up like carpet behind you. You seemed to look through to the very marrow where God dwells. And that point in Daddy, was mighty deep most times. But believing in that spotless core was your gift, and somehow your power. And that fine trait, among many other things, was why I loved and admired you. And why I always wanted to be around you. Me

I watched my brother sleeping as his body slowly ceased to shiver. He sounded like a rattletrap car that continued to sputter and idle after the key was turned off. Drops of sweat lined uniformly on his pale forehead; he was resting more peacefully after the fever had broken.

His eyes were darting behind his eyelids, and I wondered if he was dreaming. I prayed his dreams transported him to a happier place and time. But the fear that his visions were dark and hopeless, gripped my heart and made it pump a string of extra beats.

I was told all my life that God could do anything, and if he could, I wanted him to prove it. There was no one on earth who deserved a long and contented life more than my brother did. If God needed to take somebody, I could give him a long list of ne’er-do-wells as better candidates. My own name would come up a long time before my brother’s.

I bargained to lie in Lundy’s place, but nothing happened. There was no difference in the circumstances when I promised never to touch another drop of Dewar’s or swore, I’d give God every dime I ever made. A pledge to be a missionary in a God-forsaken, poverty-stricken country like Haiti for the rest of my life seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Reverend Kay, our minister, said AIDS was a gift to the earth to awaken us to our prejudices. AIDS was a massive lancet to open the deep wounds that we create when we separate ourselves from each other, as brothers and sisters. This plague would infiltrate every segment of society so that eventually everyone would be entwined and affected in some way. It would cause new strengths and bonds through our tragedy, rallying our hearts with the redemption of compassion, and thereby shining light on our long-worshipped bigotry. Ultimately this gift would foster love and understanding. Those who did not turn our back on this mortal struggle could take the focus off of our own petty lives and experience the gift of deliverance to the altar of humankind.

Her solace to us all, was the fact that no pestilence could breach our soul because our spirits are an untouchable expression of God. AIDS indiscriminate attacks would help dispel the myth that one person is above another. After all, together we make up earth’s energy and it is nothing less than the sum of us, measured by the totality of our thoughts and the fruit of our deeds.

To be honest, this did not sound like the God I had grown up with all my life. No. This was another god.

While Larry slept, I reasoned with myself, tenderly broaching my own mind with the fact that someday I would no longer hear him breathing. Though I knew time was not taken for granted, I also understood there was no escaping what was coming, even if I dared not move or let the moment leave us. Dutifully listening to each breath or just watching his chest rise and fall sometimes felt like the only sure method to keep him alive. Calmed by the rhythm, my thoughts trailed back to a point in time of my own prejudice and I recalled my first patient with “gay cancer”.

I was a registered nurse working as a floater in a large medical center in Dallas. As a pool nurse I usually got the worst patients to care for because the charge nurses favored staff nurses assigned to the floors routinely.

During report one night on the cancer floor, I was given a patient called George, because no nurse knew how to correctly pronounce his name. He was actually Jorge, the first patient I had ever cared for with AIDS. He was receiving Amphotericin infusions for cryptococcal meningitis, a common condition in immunosuppressed patients. I was familiar with the treatment since I had given it to cancer patients who were chemically immunosuppressed by chemotherapy, or just from their particular type of cancer. However, I knew nothing about AIDS. The nurses had not been given an in-service. The year was 1985.

At the time I thought that GRID (Gay Related Immune Disease) was limited to male prostitutes in bathhouses in San Francisco, New York, or Provincetown. I had heard about gay cancer, which was Kaposi’s Sarcoma, but Jorge had no type of malignancy or purple Kaposi’s lesions.

All the nurses wore masks, gloves and gowns when entering Jorge’s room. Some double gloved and wore caps and shoe covers. While in the room they breathed as shallow as they could and always removed their masks and gasped for air when returning to the hallway. Outside the door they quickly removed their gloves as if they were alight with fire, and flicked their fingers free of imaginary AIDS germs.

In haste, gowns were wadded up and shoved into the red waste bins. Then they scrubbed their hands to the elbow in a fashion vigorous enough to remove radiation poisoning.

After clearing away Jorge’s lunch, I was uncertain about what to do with his silverware, plate, and tea glass. In my ignorance, I turned his tray down into the red bag and let everything slide off into the hazardous waste bin. After a moment of thought, I decided to push in the tray as well.

I carried out my duties without speaking to him, assuming he did not speak English. Occasionally I would point or motion, or animate some menial task, in what must have been perceived by him to be some kind of caveman communication.

I thought maybe he would like to freshen up so I picked up a toothbrush and motioned as if brushing my teeth. Then suddenly I snapped in horror and dropped it like it was a snake, realizing it had once been in his mouth.

That was brilliant, I thought, why don’t you leave the man in peace? But I wanted to stay in his room until I had done something that was actually of benefit to him. Picking up a cheap disposable stethoscope, I listened to his lungs as if with purpose, but turned my head away from him. When taking his blood pressure, I noted the cuff was pediatric and fit perfectly around his tiny, wasted arm.

He had his eyes closed, so I peeked at him while I pumped up the cuff. His skin was beautiful and I figured in health he was probably very striking. It would be hard to picture him in some olive-colored landscaper’s uniform, mowing a lawn. Hauling buckets of grout around to finish a tile floor didn’t seem fitting for him either. He was just too handsome, polished and unique.

Because of the hospital’s location, there was a large number of Mexican patients who came to the clinic. I just assumed he was the usual Mexican clinic “freebie”. But as I examined him, I noticed he had on the most beautiful pair of paisley silk pajamas.

Jorge lay in bed facing the windows, turning away when I was finished. He was so thin that his perfect, pearly teeth looked too big for his head, and his face was gaunt and skeletal. He was a beautiful baby bird that had fallen from the nest, wallowing in the dust with spindly wings. But despite his weaknesses, he seemed undaunted, like a man who might chide a firing squad.

I jumped when the door flew open behind me and popped against the closet. An intern swished in to make his rounds. He made lavish movements with his hips despite the fact that he was only taking baby steps. His arms were never down to his side with his wrists level at his chest. All the nurses knew this doctor to be gay and he took care of all the AIDS patients who came through the clinic or that were hospitalized. He wore garish rings on both pinkies and a wedding band on the left ring finger. The tee shirts he wore under his scrubs were black to match his black tennis shoes, and he pushed up the sleeves of his lab coat to three quarter length.

“Hey Jorge!” he greeted. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Not too much my handsome doctor, just memorizing the lovely décor, so I can copy it back at my showroom.” He paused for a moment and motioned with a weak flip of his hand. “Where did they get the fabric for these lavish curtains? I must have the designer’s name,” Jorge mocked weakly. He had only a faint Spanish accent.

The three of us gazed upward at the offensive flame-stitch patterned curtains. The faded mauve, teal and cranberry stripes were splattered with burnt orange betadine solution. The bottoms were discolored and faded where the mop water with bleach had meandered up the curtain. Dr. Kingsley started to laugh, but used his hand to quiet himself and stroke his moustache into place.

“Do you know Mr. Santos, Penny?” The doctor asked as he looked at me from head to toe in all my protective gear. Though totally covered up, I felt completely nude. I shook my head no, speechless.

“How was dinner? Are you eating?” He looked back at the patient.

“No,” Jorge said. “I just have no taste for food. One of those hundred pills you give me makes everything taste like I’m eating tin cans in a blender with sour milk. I’m not a goat you know.” He shook his head and closed his eyes with indignation.

Dr. Kingsley sashayed over to the dinner tray, which Jorge had yet to touch. He lifted the plastic lid of a bowl. Chicken fat lay in greasy, patched islands on top of disintegrated noodles and gray cubes of two-tone mystery meat. The tiny Styrofoam ice cream container revealed frothy bubbles and was melted into a layered white liquid. The doctor thumped the pyramid of green Jell-O squares in a beige Melmac bowl. They were so hard they barely wiggled and retained their shape. He shuddered slightly and cleared his throat. He tried to smile as he walked over and shook Jorge’s hand. He had no gloves, no mask, nothing.

“Penny, this is Jorge Santos. He is an importer of fine art and design, and creates and manufactures his own line of furniture.”

I was afraid of that. As each second passed, my body continued to shrink and dwarf in the wake of my painful ignorance. “Did someone diagnose my patient with tuberculosis?” The doctor questioned as he looked at me with a cocked head and imposing squint of his eyes. I walked toward the bed, slowly pulling down my mask.

“No sir.”

“Then why the mask? And are you starting an IV on him, or giving him a shot?” he questioned me.

“No sir.”

“Then why the gloves?”

I pulled my mask the rest of the way off, and snapped off the gloves. I was flushed with shame and embarrassment. I reached for the neck of my gown. It was paper and would tear off like a stripper’s outfit.

“Now please Penny, don’t take the gown off. You need to keep it on if your nursing suit is made of polyester. Only 100% cotton will do for Mr. Santos, or he will throw you out of the room.”

Faggot, I thought.

Bull Dyke, he said with his eyes.

Jorge and the intern laughed. “That’s not true doctor. I will also accept gold lame’.” The men laughed together at their private joke. Jorge looked at me and kindly extended his hand. I warmly took it and held it with a pause after shaking. I hoped he knew I was sorry for my failing and meant no harm. I excused myself after telling him it was a pleasure to meet him.

His chart was in the rack in the nurses’ station with a big red sticker that said Isolation on it. I pulled the chart from the rack and studied it for a moment. I noted the elite Highland Park address and private insurance through Principal Mutual, one of the hospital's preferred insurance carriers. There was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, not unlike the twisting gut you feel when you hear someone calling a Black person a nigger. I was flogging myself mentally because I thought differently of Jorge now that I knew he was wealthy and successful. What if he did lay tile or landscape lawns? Would he be less deserving of my best care and attention? Perhaps I felt giving a man like him good care would merit me a pat on the back.

My race conscious upbringing had rashly forced the picture of an indigent wet-back getting a free ride on tax dollars into my mind. I was disgusted with myself.

I always said I was born a nurse. But for that night, I knew I had no right to say that; not even close. I had no merit, because I had a tainted lens with which I had unjustly viewed another human, a patient, someone with whom I was entrusted for competent, impartial care.

Walking down the mint green sterile halls, my head was down and my hand lightly skimmed the handrail. My eyes were trailing the lines of the Formica squares on the floor. I was not a healer for all mankind, as I always wanted to fancy myself. I was a starkly exposed imposter, with no place in service of this worthy man. And if I wasn't fit, how the hell was I going to take care of a worthy man like my brother?