Jamal was a regular in my yoga class for people with HIV/AIDS at Gouverneur Hospital. He was a loner, and he rarely spoke. He always came early to help convert the cold boardroom into a yoga studio by folding the metal tables and chairs and placing them off to the side so we could set up our yoga mats. And he always stayed late to help unconvert the yoga studio back into a cold boardroom. I enjoyed performing this ritual with him. His quiet focus had a calming effect on me.
Jamal wasn’t limber but he followed my instructions as I led the group of nine or ten men and women through stretches, balance poses, breathwork and relaxation exercises. But he refused to remove his shoes.
When I questioned him about it, he just looked at the floor and bit his lip. One day, Raymond, another student, took me aside and said, “Jamal doesn’t have anywhere to wash his socks.” Jamal was homeless.
One day, I ended our practice with a meditation on the question, “What is your heart’s desire?” Then I asked if anyone wanted to share. Surprisingly, Jamal was the first to speak. “I want to die clean and sober,” he said, “and not alone.” Others in the room nodded. I reminded myself to breathe.
As Jamal was leaving, he handed me a keychain with a tiny plastic kaleidoscope attached. “This is for you,” he said. I thanked him and told him I’d keep my keys on it.
That was the last time he came to class. A few weeks later, Brenda, the support group facilitator in the HIV/AIDS Dept. invited me into her office after I finished teaching and motioned for me to sit down. She spoke softly as she told me Jamal was in hospice. I lowered my head and pressed my hand to my heart. After a long silence, I managed a word.
“Where?”
The Security Guard near the entrance at Lincoln Hospital directed me to the Hospice and Palliative Care Service on the fourth floor. I got on the elevator and composed myself. Soon I was in a huge room with beds separated by curtains. I read the name cards at the foot of each bed. Jamal’s bed was in the far corner of the room. As soon as I saw him, it was clear to me he was dying. His breath was labored and his brown skin, pale. I’m not sure he knew I was there, but I leaned towards him and whispered into his ear, “I’ll stay with you, Jamal.” Then I sat down next to his bed. Occasionally, I repeated, “I’ll stay with you.” I reminded myself that I didn’t need to do anything. Everything that needed to be done was already being done.
In the wee hours of the morning, Jamal was gone. An aide came into the room, covered his body with a sheet and put him on a stretcher. I heard the wheels creaking as they moved down the hall. Jamal had gotten the death that was his heart’s desire. He died clean and sober, and he wasn’t alone.
On the way to the 149th St. subway, I stopped in an all-night variety store on the Grand Concourse and bought some flowers. Then I went home and sobbed. At dawn, I pointed my keychain kaleidoscope at the light and watched brightly colored shards of glass expand, collapse, and transform in the horizon. G&S
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