I'm Still Here!

1.

After a brief vacation, I resumed my weekly visits with a hospice patient, Clifton White, who had become my friend. I had been visiting him for months; we had lively conversations.

This time, however, his physical condition had become much worse. Cancer had already ravaged his body, and was beginning to ravage his mind. No longer eating regularly, he slept through much of the day. After the visit, I decided to return the next day, fearing that that visit would be my last.

And so it was. He now had difficulty breathing. His state of consciousness flickered like a desk lamp with a faulty connection. He could still hear me most of the time; I was sure of that.

The time for conversation was over. He had turned on his side; I put my hand on his emaciated hip and sang. Amazing Grace, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, etc. His occasional beatific smile made me realize I couldn’t stop. After an hour or so, I noticed that the death rattle had begun. It was very faint; very gentle, just like Cliff.

I continued to sing, especially Swing Low Sweet Chariot. (Cliff had told me he was a nominal Baptist; I was sure that he knew this gospel song). 

I couldn’t let him die alone. After inviting the angels to come forth and carry him home for the umpteenth time, he opened his eyes a bit, took in a deep breath, exhaled, and was gone.

2.

Clifton White (1953-2019) gave me permission to write “whatever I wanted" about him: He had been born poor in Philadelphia. He had an older brother and five younger sisters; by the time I got to know him, he had lost all contact with his family. He never did drugs, he never got into trouble. If you got to know Cliff, you would know that he was telling the truth.

Cliff was a remarkably kind man. Envy, greed, bitterness—I must say that I never found a trace of these in him during all my visits.

His life certainly had not been easy. One day, when he was a teenager, while walking home form his grandmother’s house, he was shot—an apparent victim of a stray bullet. He was almost killed. He woke up in the hospital with “tubes everywhere.” He had no idea of what happened. His hospital stay was lengthy, but he eventually recovered fully.

The worst event in his life occurred when he was eighteen: his drunken father murdered his mother while Cliff and other siblings were present. Needless to say, this moment was the subject of nightmares for the rest of his life.

He had loved his mother dearly. Even in the nursing home, so many years later, he would look through the window at the sky and talk to his mother, while his favorite song, The Temptations’ 'How Do You Heal the Broken Hearted' played over and over in his mind. His last wish—he wan’t vociferous about it—was to visit his mother’s grave in Philadelphia. It remained unfulfilled.

The most difficult year of his life occurred many years after his mother’s death: he spent the year 2000 homeless in Baltimore. At one point, during the very cold winter of that year, he wanted to die. He was rescued by a social worker who eventually found housing for him. He had never been homeless since. What an easy client he must have been! He never got into trouble; his apartment was always neat and clean.

Cliff was obviously able to keep to himself for long stretches. He apparently never had many friends. This struck me as odd, since he was quite gregarious with me. He earned his money painting houses.

One of Cliff's favorite expressions was "Go with the flow." He was not an assertive person, but this did not limit his happiness. It reminds me of a saying of Cicero: in life we are, as it were, chained to a moving chariot. We have two choices: either fall and be dragged or to run with the chariot as long as we can. This is what Chris meant. I can attest that he ran with the chariot as long as he was able. How many of the dying--or of the living--would assert that they have been completely satisfied with their lot in life? I don't know, but Cliff could certainly be counted among them.

Did he ever get lonely? Yes. On two occasions, he invited a “streetwalker” to stay with him; both times his invitations “ended in disaster.” I didn’t press him for details.

He planned to celebrate his 66th birthday with me, but this was not to be. 

About ten minutes after he died, I informed the nurse. He came into the room, accompanied by two aides who were very somber; one was almost in tears.

Everyone loved him. 

3.

When I began visiting him several months ago, I would occasionally read poetry out loud. Cliff was black, so I thought he might relate well to the poetry of Langston Hughes. (Cliff was smart, but undereducated; he read well, but he was not a reader).

On one occasion I read the following poem to him.

Still Here

been scarred and battered
My hopes the wind done scattered,
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,

Looks like between 'em they done
Tried to make me

Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin',
But I don't care!
I'm still here!

Cliff’s eyes lit up. “That’s me!’ he said, “That’s me!” He was delighted, so much so that I had the poem printed and framed for him. He referred to it frequently. It remained by his bedside till the day of his death.

What an extraordinary person Cliff was! Nothing could keep him down for long—not homelessness, not murder, not even a bullet. Cancer was able to wipe him from the face of the earth, but it failed to wipe the smile off his face till the very end.

4.

I learned a lot from Cliff—and maybe he learned a few things from me as well.

We were different. Cliff never complained;  I must admit, that I had been a glass-half-empty kind of guy. Yes, I had been known to kvetch about difficulties. After all, I hadn’t had it easy, either. (Oh, stop complaining! And I have).

I vaguely remembered having written a poem that contained the phrase that delighted Cliff so: I’m still here. I didn’t think the poem had ever been published; something made me google the poem's title anyway. And there it was. (First published in Wild Violet, an online literary magazine).

The Garden of Ramanatom

I tell them about entropy--March buds ignore me--
Boltzmann's equation nobody believed,
it killed him. Lawns growing verdant new hair--

New strands shall wave at admiring chicks;
the bald spot will vanish by June.

(That's not how it worked with me.)
Each crocus emanating from old roots;
morning glories shall hang from the trellis
like a bunch of resurrecting kids--
Rip van Winkle is a katydid,

an old bug renewed by spring's copy machine;
even if a meadowlark devours him,
his kin will look exactly like him;
no rose would notice the difference.
Like Dorian Gray, I've recaptured youth==

After flitting around blossoms like a bee,
I'll seduce a sensuous woman
who'll find me sexy as Hercules--
I'll still have time and energy for love
after jogging for six hours--

Yeah, right. It's already dusk for this lark;
wings pass the face of a luminous clock
in a darkening sky. Yet I'm still here,
tending my garden. Despite you, I thrive,
entropy! Chervil is old as I feel.


When I wrote this poem, I doubt if I had really believed its upbeat message. No doubts now. 

I see in my mind's eye Cliff's gentle face, the eyes of which convey to me an important message: Go with the flow and never take life for granted again. Good advice. Thank you, Clifton White! May you rest in peace.