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12. Caring

Mrs. Kieler climbed the stairs to the apartment. She carried a container of Chicken broth, home made of course. The two flights had made her breathless, so she stood catching her breath before the door. She knocked softly, but there was no response. Juggling the soup, she managed to get her keys, letting herself into the darkness within.

Although it was daytime, the apartment was cloaked in night. There were piles of dishes in the sink and on the counter. There were newspapers all over the place - floor, tables, and chairs. The drapes were falling from the windows. Clothes were strewn throughout. Dean was asleep on the couch. He was wearing an old, torn pair of pajamas. He was unshaven and looked as if he were sleeping off a night of heavy drinking.

Mrs. Kieler put the soup on the counter, clearing a few dishes away. She opened the drapes and hoisted the blinds letting the daylight in. Dean awoke, squinting to the unaccustomed light.

"Dean," said Mrs. Kieler. "Dean, I was in the neighborhood and . . this place is . . ."

"Mom," he said leaping up and grabbing for a robe. "Oh, you startled me."

"I let myself in," she said. "I can't believe this place."

"I've got to clean today. I really do."

"But he'll catch anything that's lurking in here," she said.

She took off her coat and began picking up things.

"I'll help you," she said. "Why is it like this?"

"I've been working nights."

"Nights?"

"Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag," he said. "I've been working at Chasson's Warehouse."

"In addition to A&S?"

"Well, no," he said. "I lost that."

"Really? Why didn't you tell us? You know we'd help? Does your mother know?"

"Well, yes - but there's little she can do. Actually it's because of her I landed the work at Chasson's. She's been dating the boss' son. And they've been really good at flexible hours. I can get Matt to sleep and dart out for a few hours. It's near enough to check in now and then."

"If it's money, you know, we can help there. I know you're proud, but he is my son, you know? Is he up?"

"No," said Dean. "He's finally asleep. We had a rough night."

"Well, I don't mean to be bossy," she said.

"No, I understand," said Dean. "Money's tight. That hospital bed was very expensive. We get meds and some meals from the Hyacinth Foundation. They have been a big help. I have a guy from the Buddy services come in to help me; but he's on vacation this week. He usually helps me straighten the place up. But with the night work and coming in to Matt's night pains, and getting to caregiver meetings and picking up odd jobs at the Nursery and . . ."

Dean sat exhausted by the litany of caregiver's chores. Mrs. Kieler sat beside him and placed her arm around his shoulders.

"I have never known a man so brave in my life as you are," she said. "I know that this isn't the only time people are faced with caring for a loved one. God knows, I watched and cared for my own mother as she died of lung cancer - but, to watch men in their twenties and thirties waste away - and to loose a son."

She began to shake with emotion.

"Mom, are you all right?" he said. "We'll have courage for two. Maybe you should come to Hyacinth's support group meetings."

"I would dear," she said. "But I am afraid I’d find them depressing."

"They're informative - and we all support each other. But you're right, they can be depressing at times. But in those stories we find hope in our crisis; we know we are not alone. The other night, there was this guy - Fred. He sat quietly throughout the meeting. We all talked about our partners and buddies and were as instructive and as positive as we could be. Then he raised his hand and stood quietly. Fred was from New Jersey - but lived the last twelve years in San Francisco. He told us of his lover and friends. He told a tale of heartbreak and dying - of farewells and healing. He worked on the coast with AIDS Services - he was a buddy, delivered meals, sewed panels for the quilt, marched in protests, walked in silent vigils - but in the end he felt he'd journeyed to no where. 'I woke up one morning,' he said. 'And they were all gone. All my friends were gone – dead; all those young and beautiful angels. There wasn't a single one left. I didn't know what to do. So I came home here. I came home to die - because there would be no one there to keep a vigil over me. I came home to the arms of my family."'

Mrs. Kieler wept.

"It's not right that those who die are your own age or younger," she said. "But when you're but a mite of a sweet boy. . . "

"And poor Russell," said Dean.

"Russell. He went so fast, honey. I could not believe it."

Russ had become sick rapidly and deteriorated within a few weeks. The memory of getting the call from Ginger that they were in the emergency room was still fresh in Dean's mind. He rushed to the hospital as fast as possible, but he was too late to even say good-bye. Russ went quickly after an episode of pneumocistis carinii. It was so fast.

"He was so flighty and full of life," said Dean. "He was like a butterfly feeding on life - flower to flower. Little did we know that too much life could be death."

"At least he had you at the end," said Mrs. Kieler.

"Well, his death was his final gift to me. He was so close to me - yet, it gave me the trial run for . . ."

"I know," she said.

"You should go see Matt now," said Dean. "But, be prepared to see the face of death. He is an old man, worn and wizen - blind and wasting away. And I have grown old in the passage. This is the vigil I keep; here in the abasement of our existence - our hopes and dreams. Here in the battlements of this frail body, keeping the spirit of who we were and are. That is the vigil I keep."

Mrs. Kieler entered the bedroom. Her son, her sweet baby child was sleeping like an old man, the breath fighting to remain aloft. His face was shallow, with sunken cheeks and thinning hair. His eyes were closed, but it would make no difference if they were open as they were as dead to sight as stones. She kissed his hands. He awoke.

"Mom," he said. "Is that you?"

"Yes, baby," she said. "How are you this morning?"

"I praise God I have another day," he said. "It's almost Thanksgiving. I just can't wait to leave this place and be with y'all like old times."

"Well, baby," she said fighting back the tears. "Well, see. We'll see."

"Is Dean there? I need to go potty."

Dean heard and was there. He guided Matt sitting him up with difficulty. Matt leaned on Dean's shoulders to stand, then step by step Matt walked to the bathroom, Dean being a gantry. Mrs. Kieler began to pick up clothing and inspected the sheets. She was crying the whole time. She opened the blinds to let the light pour it's healing balm across the darkened room. Matt returned.

"Careful, baby," said Dean. "Take each step carefully. I don't want you to fall again."

"Bruises, bruises. I'm all bruises now. Do you think another will matter?"

"That's not the point," said Dean. "I can't pick you up again. Last time you blacked out; and I couldn't believe how heavy you are."

"Getting lighter," said Matt.

"Dead weight."

"Literally. Are we near?"

They arrived at the bed's edge. Mrs. Kieler helped.

"Here. Arrived. At the station. Sit carefully. Now let me get your legs. Do you want to be propped up or lie flat?"

"Propped up," said Matt. "Did I hear someone come in?"

"No one came in," said Dean. "Your Mom's here."

"Mom, you're here?"

"Yes, baby, I've been here."

"Here," said Dean. "Take your meds."

"Don't want that shit anymore," said Matt. "What's the point! How much longer do you need to suffer with me? We could solve this all right now you know."

"I don't want to talk about that again. I'm not Dr. Kevorkian - and you're going to live way past Christmas."

"Such talk," said Mrs. Kieler shaking her head. "I'll be in the Kitchen, Dean."

"It's so nice to hear her voice," said Matt. "It's like summer in the air. But I want to smell the aroma of her cooking. I need it once more before . . . We are going to my Mom's for Thanksgiving, aren't we?"

"We'll see," said Dean.

"No, no. I love Mom's on Turkey day. It's so wonderful there. You know I love it. And you love it too. And they'll love to have us. Right Mom?"

"She's inside cleaning, " said Dean. "That's not the point, Matt. How will I . . . How can you . . ."

"Don't make excuses. Shove me in a fucking wheelbarrow and push me there. I mean, there's not much left of me that bones in a wheelbarrow couldn't accommodate. Promise me lover that we'll go."

"We'll see."

"That's not a promise," said Matt. "That's a 'no' - especially when you say it that way."

"Matt, wouldn't it be better if they all came here and spent it with us? After all, it's the people that count."

Matt frowned, he cheeks unable to catch the tears from his lifeless eyes.

"I'm not going to make it to Thanksgiving am I?" he said. "I'll never see anyone again. No eyes. No energy. No dreams when I sleep. I am a mess beyond all belief. I feel bad for my parents when they get old like me and suffer like me. If I'm not going to make it to Thanksgiving, I want to die today, lover. I want you to go out and buy the biggest load of medical shit possible and shove it down my throat so I can end this nightmare. I still have twenty-eight years to retirement - and now I'm not going to have another Thanksgiving or feel another snowfall or get fucked again. Lover, let me go. Let me fucking go."

Dean hugged him weeping along with him.

"You'll live today," said Dean. "You'll get to thanksgiving. You'll feel another snowfall. I promise. I'll carry you myself over the threshold of your Mom's place, like newly-weds, before the eyes of God. I promise you."

"I knew you would," said Matt. "I knew you would. I'm so tired."

Dean lowered the bed and stroked Matt's thinning hair. Matt smiled at his touch and kissed his hand. He fell asleep muttering "I knew you would."

Dean moved away from the bed and fell on his knees in prayer. Mrs. Kieler peaked in and saw her children thus. She knew it was time to serve the broth to soothe the soul of the caregiver as he kept his vigil with God and his impossible promise.

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		12. Caring Mrs. Kieler climbed the stairs to the apartment. She carried a container of Chicken broth, home made of course. The two flights had made her breathless, so she stood catching her breath before the door. She knocked softly, but there was no response. Juggling the soup, she managed to get her keys, letting herself into the darkness within. Although it was daytime, the apartment was cloaked in night. There were piles of dishes in the sink and on the counter. There were newspapers all over the place - floor, tables, and chairs. The drapes were falling from the windows. Clothes were strewn throughout. Dean was asleep on the couch. He was wearing an old, torn pair of pajamas. He was unshaven and looked as if he were sleeping off a night of heavy drinking. Mrs. Kieler put the soup on the counter, clearing a few dishes away. She opened the drapes and hoisted the blinds letting the daylight in. Dean awoke, squinting to the unaccustomed light. "Dean," said Mrs. Kieler. "Dean, I was in the neighborhood and . . this place is . . ." "Mom," he said leaping up and grabbing for a robe. "Oh, you startled me." "I let myself in," she said. "I can't believe this place." "I've got to clean today. I really do." "But he'll catch anything that's lurking in here," she said. She took off her coat and began picking up things. "I'll help you," she said. "Why is it like this?" "I've been working nights." "Nights?" "Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag," he said. "I've been working at Chasson's Warehouse." "In addition to A&S?" "Well, no," he said. "I lost that." "Really? Why didn't you tell us? You know we'd help? Does your mother know?" "Well, yes - but there's little she can do. Actually it's because of her I landed the work at Chasson's. She's been dating the boss' son. And they've been really good at flexible hours. I can get Matt to sleep and dart out for a few hours. It's near enough to check in now and then." "If it's money, you know, we can help there. I know you're proud, but he is my son, you know? Is he up?" "No," said Dean. "He's finally asleep. We had a rough night." "Well, I don't mean to be bossy," she said. "No, I understand," said Dean. "Money's tight. That hospital bed was very expensive. We get meds and some meals from the Hyacinth Foundation. They have been a big help. I have a guy from the Buddy services come in to help me; but he's on vacation this week. He usually helps me straighten the place up. But with the night work and coming in to Matt's night pains, and getting to caregiver meetings and picking up odd jobs at the Nursery and . . ." Dean sat exhausted by the litany of caregiver's chores. Mrs. Kieler sat beside him and placed her arm around his shoulders. "I have never known a man so brave in my life as you are," she said. "I know that this isn't the only time people are faced with caring for a loved one. God knows, I watched and cared for my own mother as she died of lung cancer - but, to watch men in their twenties and thirties waste away - and to loose a son." She began to shake with emotion. "Mom, are you all right?" he said. "We'll have courage for two. Maybe you should come to Hyacinth's support group meetings." "I would dear," she said. "But I am afraid I’d find them depressing." "They're informative - and we all support each other. But you're right, they can be depressing at times. But in those stories we find hope in our crisis; we know we are not alone. The other night, there was this guy - Fred. He sat quietly throughout the meeting. We all talked about our partners and buddies and were as instructive and as positive as we could be. Then he raised his hand and stood quietly. Fred was from New Jersey - but lived the last twelve years in San Francisco. He told us of his lover and friends. He told a tale of heartbreak and dying - of farewells and healing. He worked on the coast with AIDS Services - he was a buddy, delivered meals, sewed panels for the quilt, marched in protests, walked in silent vigils - but in the end he felt he'd journeyed to no where. 'I woke up one morning,' he said. 'And they were all gone. All my friends were gone – dead; all those young and beautiful angels. There wasn't a single one left. I didn't know what to do. So I came home here. I came home to die - because there would be no one there to keep a vigil over me. I came home to the arms of my family."' Mrs. Kieler wept. "It's not right that those who die are your own age or younger," she said. "But when you're but a mite of a sweet boy. . . " "And poor Russell," said Dean. "Russell. He went so fast, honey. I could not believe it." Russ had become sick rapidly and deteriorated within a few weeks. The memory of getting the call from Ginger that they were in the emergency room was still fresh in Dean's mind. He rushed to the hospital as fast as possible, but he was too late to even say good-bye. Russ went quickly after an episode of pneumocistis carinii. It was so fast. "He was so flighty and full of life," said Dean. "He was like a butterfly feeding on life - flower to flower. Little did we know that too much life could be death." "At least he had you at the end," said Mrs. Kieler. "Well, his death was his final gift to me. He was so close to me - yet, it gave me the trial run for . . ." "I know," she said. "You should go see Matt now," said Dean. "But, be prepared to see the face of death. He is an old man, worn and wizen - blind and wasting away. And I have grown old in the passage. This is the vigil I keep; here in the abasement of our existence - our hopes and dreams. Here in the battlements of this frail body, keeping the spirit of who we were and are. That is the vigil I keep." Mrs. Kieler entered the bedroom. Her son, her sweet baby child was sleeping like an old man, the breath fighting to remain aloft. His face was shallow, with sunken cheeks and thinning hair. His eyes were closed, but it would make no difference if they were open as they were as dead to sight as stones. She kissed his hands. He awoke. "Mom," he said. "Is that you?" "Yes, baby," she said. "How are you this morning?" "I praise God I have another day," he said. "It's almost Thanksgiving. I just can't wait to leave this place and be with y'all like old times." "Well, baby," she said fighting back the tears. "Well, see. We'll see." "Is Dean there? I need to go potty." Dean heard and was there. He guided Matt sitting him up with difficulty. Matt leaned on Dean's shoulders to stand, then step by step Matt walked to the bathroom, Dean being a gantry. Mrs. Kieler began to pick up clothing and inspected the sheets. She was crying the whole time. She opened the blinds to let the light pour it's healing balm across the darkened room. Matt returned. "Careful, baby," said Dean. "Take each step carefully. I don't want you to fall again." "Bruises, bruises. I'm all bruises now. Do you think another will matter?" "That's not the point," said Dean. "I can't pick you up again. Last time you blacked out; and I couldn't believe how heavy you are." "Getting lighter," said Matt. "Dead weight." "Literally. Are we near?" They arrived at the bed's edge. Mrs. Kieler helped. "Here. Arrived. At the station. Sit carefully. Now let me get your legs. Do you want to be propped up or lie flat?" "Propped up," said Matt. "Did I hear someone come in?" "No one came in," said Dean. "Your Mom's here." "Mom, you're here?" "Yes, baby, I've been here." "Here," said Dean. "Take your meds." "Don't want that shit anymore," said Matt. "What's the point! How much longer do you need to suffer with me? We could solve this all right now you know." "I don't want to talk about that again. I'm not Dr. Kevorkian - and you're going to live way past Christmas." "Such talk," said Mrs. Kieler shaking her head. "I'll be in the Kitchen, Dean." "It's so nice to hear her voice," said Matt. "It's like summer in the air. But I want to smell the aroma of her cooking. I need it once more before . . . We are going to my Mom's for Thanksgiving, aren't we?" "We'll see," said Dean. "No, no. I love Mom's on Turkey day. It's so wonderful there. You know I love it. And you love it too. And they'll love to have us. Right Mom?" "She's inside cleaning, " said Dean. "That's not the point, Matt. How will I . . . How can you . . ." "Don't make excuses. Shove me in a fucking wheelbarrow and push me there. I mean, there's not much left of me that bones in a wheelbarrow couldn't accommodate. Promise me lover that we'll go." "We'll see." "That's not a promise," said Matt. "That's a 'no' - especially when you say it that way." "Matt, wouldn't it be better if they all came here and spent it with us? After all, it's the people that count." Matt frowned, he cheeks unable to catch the tears from his lifeless eyes. "I'm not going to make it to Thanksgiving am I?" he said. "I'll never see anyone again. No eyes. No energy. No dreams when I sleep. I am a mess beyond all belief. I feel bad for my parents when they get old like me and suffer like me. If I'm not going to make it to Thanksgiving, I want to die today, lover. I want you to go out and buy the biggest load of medical shit possible and shove it down my throat so I can end this nightmare. I still have twenty-eight years to retirement - and now I'm not going to have another Thanksgiving or feel another snowfall or get fucked again. Lover, let me go. Let me fucking go." Dean hugged him weeping along with him. "You'll live today," said Dean. "You'll get to thanksgiving. You'll feel another snowfall. I promise. I'll carry you myself over the threshold of your Mom's place, like newly-weds, before the eyes of God. I promise you." "I knew you would," said Matt. "I knew you would. I'm so tired." Dean lowered the bed and stroked Matt's thinning hair. Matt smiled at his touch and kissed his hand. He fell asleep muttering "I knew you would." Dean moved away from the bed and fell on his knees in prayer. Mrs. Kieler peaked in and saw her children thus. She knew it was time to serve the broth to soothe the soul of the caregiver as he kept his vigil with God and his impossible promise. Next Chapter

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