I'm dying he said.the dancing bears came last night;
he wasn't kidding
I had a friend named Jim. My good friend Amy had introduced me to him as she had gotten to know him through one of her jobs working in downtown Binghamton during the summer of 1986. I only knew him for about six years, from around 1986 until 1992, and I was privileged to know him during his last. He was a fun-loving soul who liked to dance, laugh, and he adored Annie Lennox. We had those things in common back then. And then, sadly, he got sick. He tested positive for HIV and went through a couple years of being in and out of the hospital. He moved back home to his mother's house in Vestal -- something that he had to do.
During 1990-91 Jim spent a lot of time at Lourdes Hospital. I would stop in to see him frequently to bring him the newspaper (until he could no longer see well enough to read) and to chat and make him laugh. Sometimes I would read him a quick article or bring him a little gift. One day I brought him one of those clear glass baby bluebirds because I liked the way the smooth glass felt in my fingers and the color was really beautiful. I knew he could enjoy it despite his cloudy and fading vision. He held it in his hands, and it made both of us happy - that little bluebird of happiness.
After Tom and I moved to Cortland, we were able to bring Jim to our house for a weekend in between hospital stays. He was very frail and weak, but he wanted to "go away for a weekend," and have a sense of his old normal life. We had a spare bedroom then, sparsely furnished, and we drove to Vestal and picked him up and brought him here for a "party weekend." We listened to music and talked, and I kept putting on tea. On the second day, he said, "I know I probably shouldn't, but can we just have a glass of wine?" I knew that he probably shouldn't either -but I also knew that this was probably his last party weekend of his young life. He was only 25 or so. He sipped at that wine and really enjoyed it. The next day he seemed happy and calm and no worse for the wine, and we brought him home.
That was the last time I would see him not in a hospital. About six months later, I learned that he had passed away. I didn't go to his funeral. I just couldn't. The process of dying, for Jim, took what seemed like an eternity. It was pneumonia that finally ended his life here on earth. He suffered many indignities. What used to sadden me was the fear of everyone at Lourdes to just be around him. People didn't know that much about AIDS back then - or how it was transmitted. They used to look at me as if I were so odd going into visit this special person who deserved better vibes than that.
A few months after he died, Amy and I gathered our courage together to go see Jim's mom in Vestal. Amy came up from New York and we drove to visit the suburban cul de sac where Jim had grown up -- where he had felt out of place -- for many reasons. Perhaps it was for his bright red hair and sometimes awkward/comical presence, or for his being the only adopted child in a large Catholic family and not really knowing about his birth parents, or for being gay and not accepted by many of those he loved. We had a sad but peaceful visit. His mom wanted us each to take some of Jim's things to remember him by. She gave me a couple of Annie Lennox tapes and the little bluebird I had given Jim not so long back.
We had some closure that day. But it is the kind of closure that I think about in terms of analogy. It is like the human heart as a hand-blown work of art glass. Each little bubble and swirl represents some burst of air/emotion that shapes the whole of the work. It forms, permanently, and becomes a part of the piece. I have a swirling bubble from my time with Jim and the effect that his death had on me. That glass bluebird sits on my kitchen windowsill next to a larger glass bluebird that I had gotten from my mother years earlier. I love those images. I see them every morning and every evening.
There is something you learn from being with those who are dying. There is something about unconditional love that just wells up if you let it. There was something recognizable and hilarious about his telling me about the dancing bears on the telephone one evening from Vestal. I could picture them. He knew he had been hallucinating and that realization was funny to him. Funny and sad. All those painkillers he was taking helped him tap into the dancing bears. I hope he joined them easily. I am guessing that he did.
