Touch Has A Memory

I preface this post by saying that I want to submit this to the blog charity we've just heard about. Hope you like it. It is based on a true story that happened to me.

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I came into his room with all the tools of the trade -- small tub, soap in a bottle, washcloth, water to drink for both of us, and an orange. I also had brought in a newspaper and a small gift, that being my custom. Inquiring about his background, I learned that he was an aspiring writer. And he was as the vast majority of creative, artistic types find themselves -- not financially solvent, living from day to day, paycheck to paycheck -- and in this case, terribly alone. He no longer had a full head of hair, naturally, and his manner was suspicious and quite fearful.

"Good morning, Teddy. I'm Ron." I stuck my hand out. He withdrew further under his covers, mumbling something I couldn't quite make out. I put my wares down and pulled a chair up beside his bed. I began to peel the orange and offered him a slice. He stared at me with empty, deep eyes. When he didn't take it immediately, I placed it on the nightstand on top of a napkin. I separated the orange as one does to eat it and left all the slices in a neat pile. Then it began.

"So how are you, Teddy?" No response. "At least the sun came out today. First time in about two weeks, I think." He simply kept staring at me from his position on the other side of the world. All I knew to do was to keep talking. And offer something that he might find positive. "You don't know this, but I'm an actor...and a writer. I've been very lucky. I know you're a writer, too." I looked about his room and saw the blue notebook. "Is this yours?" He followed me with his eyes as I ambled over to the other chair. "I'd love to hear some of your stuff, Teddy. Would you show me? Do you mind?" I placed the beaten notebook on the bed within his reach. I then walked back to my chair, sat down and waited. He looked at me hesitantly. He said "Are you making fun of me?" Calmly, I replied "No, Teddy, of course not. I'm a writer, too. I would like to check out your stuff, that's all. I'd like to hear what you have to say."

Teddy tentatively reached for his notebook. I saw for the first time the ugly disease he hid, a curse that had spread past his sleeve. I admit that my own feelings were highly mixed at that moment. He slowly opened it; lots of writing and artwork spilled out onto the bed. Teddy was deliberate in his search, looking for something specific. When he found it, he handed it to me to read. I asked him "Would you read it for me, sir?" He continued to push it to me, so I took it and read:

"All I ever wanted was to do my job. Be with my friends. Maybe even fall in love."

I stopped cold. I looked up at these eyes that now owned a sudden little spark. Not huge, but real. He quietly said to me "Read it again." And he showed just a hint of a smile. So I read it again. Once more, he urged me to read it, and I did. When I looked up from his paper for the final time, Teddy said "That's pretty good." "Yes, sir, it is. And it's a great thing to dream about." He suddenly laid back in his bed, more relaxed and aware that the man in his room was not going to hurt him.

"Well, bud, I need to do for you what I came to do. Okay?" He nodded affirmatively.

I filled the small tub with warm water and liquid soap. I soaked the washcloth in it. I donned my thin hospital rubber gloves. Teddy waited patiently. I helped him remove his thin gown down to his waist. And what I saw...it took my breath away in its sheer audacity. I hoped that Teddy did not notice my pause. And I started the bath.

I washed his arms gently. I soaked the cloth and easily bathed the young man's chest. As I did so, he closed his eyes and began to silently cry. Again I soaked the cloth in the soapy water and rubbed down his back. When I touched his back, his cry was louder, more purposeful. I stopped. "I'm sorry, son, am I hurting you?"

"No...You're the first man to touch me since I got sick. I've been here for months."

I froze for a few seconds, stunned at my reaction to this simple declaration, shared through the hardened nature of his undeserved pain. I heard through my own haze "Please don't stop. Not yet." I continued slowly as Teddy resumed his inaudible weep, the tears trailing down his crevaced face. I said "Read me something else." He took a deep breath and went through more of his papers. He found what he wanted. "I didn't write this. I just liked the sounds of the words. Like music..." And he then read to me...

"She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies..."

Byron. The kid was reading the Romantics. And the tragedy was that he wouldn't be able to really share the romance in his mind, in his heart. He knew...and I knew. But he read the entire poem, while I cleaned up around him. I pulled up his gown back around his shoulders and tied the strings in the back.

I emptied the water and cleaned out the plastic tub. I washed my own hands and gathered my day's tools together. I sat down beside him and said what came into my mind.

"Thank you, son. I hope you have a wonderful day." I stuck my hand out. Teddy looked at it, took my hand and tried to shake it. He was so weak that he couldn't properly grip my hand. So I sat down and gave him a strong hug. He lifted his arms as high as his frail body would allow and hugged back, beginning to cry softly. We sat there for a couple of minutes. When we let go, he immediately put himself back under his armor of covers. As I walked to the door, Teddy said "I hope you come back."

Teddy passed away a little less than two weeks later. He was nineteen years old.

Now remember, this was 1994. The world did not know as much about AIDS as it does now, but it deals with the monster just as badly as in those years. There were the faces to show and tell much better than any writer could describe.

And the words he shared are now a part of my own credo in life: To do my job, to be with friends, to fall in love. There is no higher purpose for any of us.

John Keats, another of the Romantics, wrote: "Touch has a memory." From the mouths of babes...