Maybe I Could Sleep Here

Juan and his partner Mark lived in a small Cape-style house on a side street in a town with only a minimart, a library, and a tree that was purported to be the largest in the state. Their house was, at one time, impeccably decorated in tasteful browns. The granite countertops hosted a well-stocked bar, and the pantry was filled with the darkest of chocolate and tapenade. But when I came to know this couple, all of it was slightly askew. The thick wooden dining room table was strewn with morphine syringes, mouth swabs in glasses of water, mail unread, and bills unpaid. The red and brown drapes were drawn, the air was stale. Mark had cancer, brain cancer, and it had him firmly in its grasp.

Juan was from Puerto Rico, handsome and meek. His accent was thick, and his command of English imperfect. It was clear that Mark had assumed a leadership role in their relationship, handling the logistics of the household and their social calendar. Juan answered the door, eyes squinting at the bright sunshine outside, waving me in with his well-manicured but soiled hands. He was glad to see me, someone, and anyone, who might take charge of the situation. Mark had terrible pain. He was lethargic, his face moon-shaped from the steroids feebly attempting to control the swelling in his brain. He was naked in the hospital bed, unashamed, and unaware. His eyes were closed but he answered our questions. Juan rubbed his feet, and like a child, he moved into the touch, soothed by it. Next to the hospital bed was a futon, maroon comforter crumpled, Juan's gray hairs and dandruff on the pillow.

That day was my first contact with Mark and Juan. I knew there was little I could do with my opioids, medicines, and equipment that would do more than what Juan could do with a touch of his hand. Juan's sadness and anxiety about what he should do was what I tried to tackle in that visit, and in many subsequent phone calls. The tears ran past the dark circles under his eyes, his fingers repeatedly combing through the front of his hair, in desperation. His hands shook when I coaxed him to draw up the morphine; he sat down with his head in his hands when I suggested a suppository: “I can't. I can't.”

I tried to uncover whatever supports he had available to him, and found only a neighbor, Sarah, three doors down, who had offered to help by walking their dog, Margaret. The neighbor and he weren't close, but the arrangement had been silently bringing them closer over the weeks. He glowed when he spoke of her and what she was doing: “she's like my sister.” He said she just came by and took the dog for walks. Anyone else, I asked, who might want to come? He said no. His family was in Puerto Rico, and weren't supportive of their relationship. I packed up to leave, giving him my phone number, and noticed Margaret, a big-eyed brown dog, lying on the suede couch, head resting purposefully on her front paws, looking forlorn.

During the daytime hours Juan called for support, five, maybe six times. Each time when I would give him a vague prediction, confirmation, or news of what may come next, his voice would break, and I could envision his hand running through the thick tousled hair in the front. Each time I confirmed that yes, Mark was getting closer to death, I felt like I was delivering a fresh punch in his stomach. Not wanting him to be blindsided, I told him directly that things were moving fast and Mark would probably die soon.

When I went back to pronounce Mark at just before midnight two days later, I awakened from my sleep without the guffawing I normally do. I grabbed my nursing bag and got into my car with only a few swipes of my toothbrush along my teeth; my task was urgent. I drove fast. When I knocked and no one came immediately to the door, I let myself in. I walked back to the bedroom and found them there, Mark on his side, Juan curled into him, sobbing. My usual calm and guard wasn't strong; Juan was so vulnerable, so injured by the death of his beloved.

The dog-walking neighbor Sarah was there, in the living room. She looked disquieted by the need for her to be in the house. Sarah sat next to the dog for which she had cared in the weeks past. As I went about the tasks at hand, her discomfort was palpable. I cleaned Mark's body, dressed him; emptied the glasses and threw away the crumpled tissues. I disposed of the morphine and suppositories, the evidence of the ugliness of suffering and the horrors of the past few days. I worked quickly, but quietly, and the scene became calmer and Juan more composed.

I sat at the dining room table completing paperwork and Sarah came over and quietly and self-consciously expressed her concern to me that Juan had not been upstairs in the home for the past two weeks. Juan had told her: “I can't go up there. I'm just going to stay downstairs.” There was reluctance in her voice, worry of betrayal by sharing this private information with me. She was the neighbor-turned-dog walker-turned-sister and she did not want this important information to fester. I finished my work, tired from lack of sleep and the intensity of the visit. The funeral home had taken Mark's body; my work was done for the night. The social worker would follow up with Juan for bereavement.

Now I knew there was one more task to do before I could leave. I looked over at Margaret, the sad-eyed dog on the brown couch. Juan knew I was leaving, my bag was readied at the door. I told him we needed to do one last thing before I go… “We need to go upstairs.” Again, Juan's tears flowed, his hand instinctively combing through his hair. His protests were muffled by my call to Margaret, who came cautiously off of the couch to lead the way up the stairs. We soldiered up, the motley four of us—Margaret the dog, Sarah the neighbor, Sarah the tired nurse, and sad, sad Juan.

We entered the bedroom, the room he had not wanted to come to, navigating past the walker in the hallway. Margaret jumped up onto the unmade bed. I stood by the door and watched as Juan went to her, drawn magnetically to the dog on their bed. Margaret lay perfectly in the middle, just out of reach of him as he went to touch her without himself getting onto the bed. He moved closer, putting one edge of one knee onto the bed, but still was unable to reach her. His knee swiveled and one edge of his hip went onto the bed. Sarah and I looked at our shoes as he slowly moved to reach Margaret, until he was On The Bed. After a few minutes of touching her, straightening the sheets, moving his body out of the awkward position into one that was more natural and comfortable, the words came: “This isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe I could sleep here.”

The sad-eyed dog had been pushed into the background during Mark's illness and death. She was likely a nuisance. Yet now, she initiated the closing of the chasm between life and death on which Juan teetered. I can only imagine that she continues to breathe life into Juan, by insisting that they go out, eat, and engage with the world. And I know her warm body is curled against his in the dark hours of his grief, reminding him of the life that he still has in front of him.

And then I went home, driving slowly this time, in the light of that full moon.