Ed Lets Go

He looks cadaverous. His skin looks dirty yellow and sinks down around his bones; his eyes are red-rimmed and staring. Ed is in a coma. I want to leave, to run away. I force myself to sit there. I remember what we learned in training. Stay in the moment. Notice what is around you.

“I like your tattoos,” I say, touching his cool flat arms. “I have a tattoo too but it is not as big and grand as yours are.” Ed’s eyes are open wide, staring up and beyond me.

When he breathes, his chest moves up and down. Up and down.

I begin to notice how beautiful Ed is. His eyes and mouth are open wide like my father’s, but Ed’s expression is different. My father looked angry. Ed’s expression is joyous and peaceful. There is a postcard size picture of Jesus above Ed’s bed. When Ed swallows or breaths his whole upper body moves under the sheets; below his waist, nothing moves. As if death has crept into him through his feet, and was crawling up into his body. I tell him how beautiful he is. “You outshine Jesus,” I say.

His breathing begins to slow down. I wait anxiously for the next breath. “Come on Ed, breathe,” I whisper. Then I realize I’m being silly. The man is dying from AIDS; he wants to let go. Ed snorts, closes his eyes and mouth, and opens them. His chest stops moving up and down. I don’t hear any breathing. I sit with Ed. I stroke his forehead, touch his knotty arms, take the picture of Jesus and put it on his chest. Then I go and tell the head nurse.