By Dr. Donna A. Minott, ContributorCHRIS WAS energetic, spicy and enervating. He was the heart of Life's Work, an income generating project under the auspices of Jamaica AIDS Support. He made candles of all shapes, sizes and aromas and he sold them at craft fairs, expos anywhere that an interest was shown. He trained others like himself, persons diagnosed HIV-positive who were in need of an occupation, preferably one that generated an income, in the art of candle making. Chris was housed at the hospice Life and one could be forgiven for querying why such a vital individual was living among those who had only a few days left to live. But all too soon his day came when it was time to go.
The staff knew that the end was near, as did his brother who rarely left his bedside. I, unsuspecting, turned up unexpectedly this mid-week morning to visit my friend at the hospice. Joan never asked why I was there at that unusual time but that day she repeatedly asked me "Have you gone to visit Chris?" and I repeatedly answered that I would do so on my way out. She never explained why she kept coming back with that refrain, but eventually I gave in to her unspoken prompt and I went to see him. There he was lying on crisp white sheets, with one of his aromatic candles burning steadily beside him. Eyes closed, mouth opened as he laboured agitatedly to breathe.
I identified myself but received no perceptible response and so I just sat there by his bed wondering, what should I do? What should I say? What could I do? Was there anything that I could do to calm him? And so I reached for his hand and gently rubbed as I repeated "It's OK. It's OK to let go." Not knowing what else to do, I reached within myself and to comfort me I proceeded to recite the 23rd Psalm.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want..."
As I spoke I realised that his breathing was becoming less agitated.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I shall fear no evil: for thou art with me..."
His breathing was now calm and his body less tense. "I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
Continuing to hold his arm I asked the Lord to welcome Chris into His kingdom. I left the room as his brother returned to his bedside. Less than five minutes later the activity being generated by the workers at the hospice to and from his room signalled that he was gone. He was now at peace. Like a wisp of smoke ascending to the heavens carried on the aroma of his candle Chris was no more on this land. No more pain. No more suffering. I was overwhelmed. How can I explain the role I played at the time of his passing and Joan's as she asked "Have you gone to visit Chris?" I could not, I cannot. But I believed I helped in some small way to bring him peace.
