Читать книгу A Gift of Love - Tony Cointreau - Страница 9

The first time I was aware of the healing power behind the simple act of touching a person in a loving way was when my mother and I arrived at the hospital after the doctors had amputated my aunt Tata’s leg below the knee. We had decided to wait at home (only a few blocks away) during the operation and came back minutes after she had been wheeled back into her room.

My aunt had been stoic throughout the pain of gangrene, which had been caused by a hospital error when they blocked an artery in her groin during a simple test. But now we could hear her screams as we came out of the elevator on her floor. A nurse greeted us with the news that something had gone wrong after the surgery and two interns were now working on what was left of her leg to correct it. The worst part was that they did not want to give painkillers to anyone with so little body weight. It sounded as though they were torturing her to death.

I may not have been the bravest person in the world with medical emergencies, but I kept my head and insisted that my mother get the primary surgeon on the phone and request any and all drugs possible to alleviate her sister’s suffering. The reason I made her call was because I could tell that the doctor had been impressed by Mother’s charms and would give us immediate action.

While waiting for the medication, I watched my mother gently caress her sister’s brow. It particularly stuck in my mind since it was an uncharacteristic thing for her to do.

After Mother had returned back home, my aunt insisted on showing me what was left of her leg because she feared that they had taken off more than they had told her they would. I tried to reassure her as best I could before I excused myself to go sit in the bathroom with my head between my legs so as not to pass out.

The next day when I went back to the hospital my aunt confided to me that the only thing she remembered clearly about the terrible day of the operation was the comfort she had felt when my mother had caressed her forehead.

It was a lesson I never forgot.

Years later, while still not able to acknowledge the reality of our mortality, I knew that I was the only person present to give my eighty-five-year-old father any comfort during his last two weeks of life in an intensive care unit. The doctors had tried their best but were not able to stop an ulcer in his stomach from bleeding. Now, one by one, his vital organs were shutting down.

On one of my visits, the doctors told me that my father was no longer conscious. But when I entered his cubicle the nurse who stayed by his bedside said that every time I walked in the room, his vital signs reacted sharply to my presence.

That day he seemed agitated and uncomfortable so I asked him to move the index finger of his right hand in mine if he was in any pain or discomfort. I didn’t have to wait long to feel his finger move ever so slightly in my hand. Within minutes I sent word to the doctors that I could communicate with my father and that he was in physical distress.

After that, I took nothing for granted and made sure each time I saw him that I held his hand, stroked his arm and told him how much he was loved. I even said that I was sure that Mother, who had died fifteen years before, was watching over him. I thought he would like that.

I did everything in my power to comfort him until the final moments of his life, when I went into complete denial of the fact that he was dying and left the hospital. I was at dinner with friends when I got the message that my father had passed away an hour after I had left him.

I know that I could have been riddled with guilt for having deserted him at the end. But I later accepted the fact that I had done the best I could to let him know that he was not alone. And no matter what condition he was in, he had been able to feel the touch of my hand and communicate—even if it was with only the slightest of movements of one finger.

At least I was beginning to “get it right.”

When AIDS came along, it was considered a twentieth-century plague. The unknown factors of the disease frightened everyone—including the medical profession. Some even believed it was transmitted through the air. They believed you could catch it by just being in the same room with a patient. When a popular cabaret singer with AIDS was asked to talk about the disease on television, the crew insisted that he be confined behind a glass wall. I can only imagine how that must have made him feel.

The ramifications of a sick person’s being so completely isolated by society are devastating. This means that there will be no one to hold your hand, give you a hug, or comfort you as you approach your final days— alone and afraid.

A hug or the human touch is not a danger with AIDS or most other diseases. The only thing society should fear is not having enough love to comfort someone in their agony so that they can leave this world with a feeling of peace.

One of our young men at the hospice had been offered a trip to Lourdes and was still strong enough to make the trip. The only visible sign of AIDS was the cancer on his face, which he managed to hide effectively with a special makeup.

My real purpose at the hospice became clear to me on the morning of his departure, when he said, “Tony, the real work you do at Gift of Love is not cleaning or mopping, but talking to me, touching Donald’s shoulder as he walks by, or listening to Herbert—the little things that show you care about us.”

It was never too much trouble to go up and down the stairs one more time to make sure everyone was comfortable. And sometimes it took a little ingenuity to figure out a new way to move someone and cause the least amount of pain or how to painstakingly clean a man who had such constant diarrhea that his rectum looked as though it had been split wide open into one big wound.

It was a shock the first time I saw that kind of devastation on a patient—something that no amount of painkillers could effectively help. The poor man would start to cry whenever he felt his next bowel movement coming on because he dreaded having to endure the cleaning process. I finally devised a way to wash him with a gentle antiseptic lotion that almost seemed to have a numbing effect on his affected part. The whole time I kept reassuring him in a soothing voice that I would go slowly and for him to let me know the moment he felt too much discomfort. In time he stopped dreading the procedure because he trusted me to be as careful as possible. What I did was mentally put myself in his position and work with the same gentle touch I would have wanted for myself.

Mario was another man who needed more than painkillers to get him through some rough moments. All day long, every fifteen to twenty minutes, he suffered from general spasms of pain throughout his whole body. The only thing that got him through it was for me to run to his bedside from wherever I might be in the house, and let him hang onto my hand until the spasms had passed. The pain only lasted a couple of minutes so I told him that every time he cried out I would be there for him to hang onto until it passed. I eventually understood that, for Mario, my hand was the most effective painkiller we had in the house. And I never let him down.

When Wendell was days away from death, I overheard him on the phone, begging his mother in Tennessee to come and visit him before he died. I could see by his face that his efforts had been in vain.

I then went to one of the Sisters and told her what I had heard and that if it was a question of money, I would be happy to pay for her trip.

Sister sadly shook her head and said, “Tony, I’m sorry to say, but money is not the problem.”

All I could do was go up to Wendell’s room and see if he was all right. As soon as he saw me, he said, “Would you give me a hug? Sometimes that’s the best medicine.”

I understood that sometimes it was the only medicine.

It had taken me the better part of a lifetime to erase the fear of being fully present at the passing of a loved one or a friend, but the gifts they gave back to me were much more than I could ever have given them.

And all I needed was my two hands.

Sometimes touch can not only help someone who is ill or dying but can also help someone such as a homeless person who is living on the street in desperate circumstances. The saddest part is that many of these people, through no fault of their own, have been reduced to begging for shelter or a piece of bread and are shunned and ignored as though they were lepers.

On a beautiful Spring day in 2013 I was walking down Madison Avenue in New York when, because of a neurological disease doctors say I inherited from my mother, I found it increasingly difficult for my legs to go much farther without resting somewhere for a few moments. I had just reached the steps of a church where an elderly black lady was sitting with a cup for money at her feet. Not only was she elderly but her whole body was severely crippled with arthritis. I also noticed that, although she had a smile that could light up the Empire State Building, she did not have a tooth left in her mouth.

When I leaned down and asked if I could sit next to her, she replied in a soft voice with the hint of a southern drawl, “Of course you can, Honey.”

She seemed so friendly that I introduced myself and said, “My name’s Tony. What’s yours?”

She smiled at this complete stranger and said that her name was Muzette.

“What a beautiful name,” I replied.

“Thank you,” said my new friend, and added, “My mother’s name was Muzette and my daughter’s name is Muzette.”

“Do you have a place to sleep, Muzette?”

“Oh, yes, I have a little place on West 97^th Street, but I’m here because I don’t have enough money to eat.”

My mind couldn’t help but think of the wonderful and expensive dinner my partner (and by then spouse) of forty-eight years, Jim Russo, and I were going to give as a birthday celebration that night at La Grenouille restaurant for a very privileged and very rich lady. All I wanted at that moment was to make sure that Muzette with the beautiful smile had a lovely dinner also, so I took a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket, crumpled it up and put it in my new friend’s severely crippled hand.

Without even looking at what I had put in her hand, she put it in her purse and asked, “Honey, can I have a hug?”

All I can say is that it was one of the warmest and best hugs I have ever had in my life. We then laughed together when I said (I was dressed in full Versace), “You know Muzette, we must really look like the Odd Couple!”

While we quietly sat and watched the parade of Upper East Side elite make their way to stores such as Chanel or Ralph Lauren, this wise woman who refused to let her life’s circumstances defeat her spirit turned to me and said, “You know Tony, many of these people are much poorer than I am.”

I could only think, What a remarkable and inspiring human being I have the privilege of sitting next to on the steps of this church.

When my legs felt rested and it was time for me to get home, Muzette gave me another one of her magical hugs, and when I reached the corner of the street and turned back to see her, she blew me a kiss.

Of course I couldn’t wait to tell Jim the moment I walked in the door about the remarkable angel I had met that afternoon.

Later that night at the restaurant I told my wealthy friend about my encounter with Muzette and that instead of buying her an expensive birthday present I had given her “present” (the twenty dollars) to Muzette so she could have a nice dinner that night too.

About a week after my extraordinary and inspiring encounter with Muzette, Jim was making his way down Madison Avenue when he saw a little black lady in a wheelchair holding a cup with a couple of dollars in it in her twisted hands. He thought nothing of it until he got halfway down the street and turned back to ask her, “Are you Muzette?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I’m a friend of Tony’s. He told me all about you and said that you are his angel!”

“But he’s MY angel!” she replied.

Jim could hardly wait to come home and tell me the good news. He had met my Muzette and in his eyes and heart he could also tell that she was an angel.

A few days after Jim met Muzette, I was again walking up Madison Avenue when I heard someone call out to me. There was my angel sitting in her wheelchair with her arms out ready to give me a hug.

Her first words to me were, “I met your hubby the other day.”

She smiled and laughed as we talked and I realized that she remembered every word of the conversation we had had on the steps of the church the first day we met. That, of course called for another of her magical hugs.

As soon as I was ready to go on my way, I noticed a homeless man on the other side of the street. His legs were obviously handicapped as he stumbled, half hopping on one leg through the traffic to get to us.

I don’t know what I was expecting when he miraculously reached the street corner where Muzette was giving me a farewell hug, but I will never forget the words he shyly spoke as he came closer to me.

“Can I have a hug too?” he asked. And that was all he wanted.