Saying Hello to Strangers

I walked into the hospital room of my next client.

I have done this time and time again. I smell the cleaning agents used on the equiptment and the bleach on the sheets. I notice the harsh whiteness of the light, and the frail body encapsulated by the large hospital bed. If you close your eyes and listen, you can hear the fear on the edge of people's voices.

Death is coming soon, and they don't know what he looks like. They are waiting for a stranger to appear at their arm to lead them away to a different place, and yet they've always been told not to talk to strangers.

Sometimes the client is ready for this meeting, but the family is not. They stand blocking the door keeping a lookout for anyone suspicious. They know, deep down, they'll never stop him from arriving, but they remain vigilant.

Sometimes the family has accepted this visit from death, but do so with such remorse and bitterness you can taste it in the air. It's sour and unpleasant. As a caregiver, you feel out of place. The family looks at you closely, just to make sure you aren't the awaited stranger, and is disappointed that you only offer comfort and not absolution.

Sometimes... This time, a banquet is waiting. Death is welcomed with open arms by all. The families leave the light on for him, and welcome all that enter that room. The client smiles at you, shakes your hand, and the light in their eye betrays their failing body. They know there is nothing to fear. They feel lucky they get the pleasure of one last (or a first) massage before they go. Their presence takes over the sterile room, and walking in is like walking into a haven. Your skin warms to the sunlight streaming in, and your ears open to the sound of laughter and joy. You leaving wondering if that client refreshed your soul more than you relieved their pain. It leaves you pondering, hoping, wishing that you will die with the grace and beauty that you were privileged to witness on this day.