A Journey of Compassion: Lessons from Two Lives
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Chapter 1: The Fear of AIDS
In the mid-1980s, few things terrified nursing students more than the prospect of caring for an AIDS patient. When my classmate Cleeta and I were assigned to the 4th floor, it became a reality. While I was tasked with caring for an elderly woman suffering from dementia, Cleeta faced the daunting assignment of looking after a man with AIDS.
"I can't take care of him," she protested. "I want a different assignment!" However, our instructor, Mrs. Knudson, insisted that Cleeta either accept her patient or be sent home. Reluctantly, we made our way to the 4th floor.
As the only student nurses on the unit, we received extensive training on isolation protocols. We donned gowns, masks, and gloves, and mixed bleach solutions for cleaning. My gaze drifted to the room at the end of the hall, where a frail man lay in bed, his face gaunt and damp with sweat. The stark contrast of his situation struck me deeply.
By lunchtime, we had handed out most of the trays. Cleeta hesitated with the last tray, the one meant for the AIDS patient. With a sigh, she approached his room and then awkwardly slid the tray across the floor, muttering, "He probably won't eat anyway." I felt a pang of guilt as I stood there, uncertain and unhelpful.
“Are you hungry?” I asked him from the doorway, but he didn’t respond. His sunken eyes stared blankly at me. I quickly put on my protective gear and stepped inside, moving the tray to his bedside. My heart raced—not from fear of him, but from the dread of the disease that was taking his life. I realized that I should have offered more than just a meal; I should have shown him compassion.
That night, I lay in bed reflecting on my actions. I had failed to connect on a human level, to extend a simple gesture of kindness, like offering him a sip of water. Though I had shown a bit of kindness, I recognized my own cowardice in the face of mortality.
David: A Second Chance
Years later, while volunteering for a hospice agency, I encountered David, another man battling AIDS. By then, knowledge about the virus had improved, yet many caregivers still hesitated to provide care for those affected. David resided in a luxurious penthouse adorned with treasures from his travels, and for six weeks, I had the privilege of caring for him.
During our time together, we delved into profound discussions about life, death, and everything in between. He shared stories of his adventures across continents, and we savored fresh oranges delivered from the farmer’s market. David even encouraged me to buy a Walkman to listen to nature sounds during sleepless nights, which he did the night he passed away.
These two men remain etched in my memory as stark contrasts. Though my experiences with them were separated by years, they taught me a vital lesson about compassion. When I miss an opportunity to show care, I now remain vigilant, seeking another chance to create something meaningful.
Narrative Medicine: Bridging Two Worlds
Narrative Medicine, an intersection of healthcare and the humanities, has long existed, with artists, writers, and caregivers intertwining literature with medicine. Dr. Rita Charon has formalized this intersection, turning it into a recognized field. It serves as a path for caregivers to enhance their skills, for patients to foster healing, and for writers like myself to share impactful stories.
Having spent 18 years in healthcare before pursuing creative writing, I reflect on my journey through stories like "A Tale of Two Men," first shared on my blog in 2013.
This video titled "Tony Evans | A Tale of Two Men" explores the profound insights drawn from caring for individuals facing life-threatening conditions.
The second video, "A Tale of Two Men," further delves into the lessons learned from these contrasting experiences.