God’s DisguisePlace in the NonFiction Writing Contest
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Issue 17
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Two of Jesus’ disciples were walking down the road toward Emmaus when they encountered a man they didn’t recognize. The man asked them what they were talking about. One of the men, Cleopas, told him they were talking about “all that had happened” – the crucifixion, the vision of angels, and the empty tomb. At the end of their journey, Cleopas and his friend invited their new companion to stay with them. When they sat down to have a meal, the friend blessed and broke the bread. In that moment, the two men were able to see that the man was Jesus.
When I was 12, I lost my faith. I had been a faith-filled child. My deep faith was anchored by church services and Sunday School, but doubts began to appear. Cracks were forming in the foundation of my faith. I was troubled that I could not find any evidence that God existed. I suspected that faith was a made-up idea that adults used to try to explain the unexplainable. I begged, “God, if you truly exist, give me a sign. Help me to see that you are real.” I went through a painful transition, letting go of my anchor and moving toward what I considered to be a more rational understanding of my life and the world around me Walking my own road into adulthood, I began feeling angry that adults had pushed their false beliefs on me, but as time passed, I came to accept, and eventually embrace, atheism as the rational way of understanding life. I only shared my state of non-belief with people who were like-minded or at least open to the idea that we were living in a godless world. In time, I gave it little thought. I didn’t need God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit to know I wanted to be a good person in the world, reaching out to people in need and striving to do what I believes was right. Decades passed. In the late 80’s when I was 37 and AIDS was considered a terminal diagnosis, I began volunteering in the Buddy Program at AIDS Action Committee. I was between assignments when Nancy, the Buddy Program Coordinator, knowing I had the summer off from my job as the administrator of a school for special needs adolescents, asked me if I would spend some time with a baby at Boston’s Children’s Hospital. “This will be very short term,” Nancy explained. “The baby’s name is Lily. She’s two and a half. They used a medical flight to get her here from Vermont where they don’t have sophisticated treatment for children with AIDS. Miriam’s her mother. She has HIV, not full blown AIDS. Her health is okay. The problem is that she hasn’t left Lily’s side for days because the baby cries any time she’s not being held. Miriam is desperate for a break.” It was a compelling request but the idea of spending time with a sick baby made me uncomfortable. I checked my calendar hoping there would be some forgotten commitment that would demand my attention. Instead, my calendar confirmed that I had a stretch of time available. Thinking about the request, I realized that without a good reason, I was incapable of saying no. So, feigning the confidence that I hoped to grow into, I agreed. When Miriam first put Lily in my arms, her warm body molded to mine as if she belonged there. She was larger than an infant, but holding her, she felt like one. I carefully lowered us both into the rocking chair and nodded to Miriam, letting her know that this was going to be fine. As I gently rocked, Miriam gathered her things into a tan canvas shoulder bag. She didn’t look sick. She appeared to be in her early 30’s; her medium brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail. Her face was drawn and her complexion sallow. She looked like she needed a good night’s sleep. An oversized blue work shirt concealed much of her body, but I could see she had a slender frame. Her brown eyes were bright, and her smile was welcoming. With her bag packed, she pulled up the blue plastic chair from the other side of the room and sat across from Lily and me. “I’m going to visit an old friend who lives in Weymouth. The phone number where I’ll be is over there on the table. I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea. I’ve been here for three days without a break. I’m dying to take a shower, change my clothes, and have a little time to myself. The nurses are wonderful, but they don’t have the time to really take care of Lily, like to hold her and rock her.” “I’m happy I can help,” I said, hoping my genuine desire to help would mask the uneasy feeling that was telling me I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never taken care of a baby, let alone a sick baby. “That’s great,” I said, calculating the number of hours it would take for Miriam to get to Weymouth, shower, relax a bit and return. I had agreed to “a couple of hours,” which to me, meant two hours. I had plenty of time, but I wasn’t sure I’d know what to do with Lily for two hours, let alone four or five, which was what I calculated it would take, considering where her friend lived. “Her diapers are in the drawer. Lily’s too big for the changing table so I usually put a couple towels down on the mattress,” Miriam explained, nodding toward the crib. Miriam described how she changed Lily’s diapers and then told me how and when to give Lily her bottle. Having some instructions to follow gave me a bit of confidence. “Anything else I should know?” “No, that’s about it. She sleeps most of the time as long as she’s being held.” Pausing just a moment, she continued, “Can I tell you a little about us?” “I’d like that,” I replied, thinking Miriam probably wanted us to know each other a little better before leaving me alone with her daughter. “Well, Lily was two when she got sick. Before then she met all the usual milestones, but when she got sick, she lost everything – her ability to walk and talk and feed herself. It was terrifying. It took a while for them to figure out what was wrong. When they finally tested her for HIV and her test came back positive, the doctor wanted all of us to be tested. My other daughter, Francie, was about to have her first birthday. Thank God, she and my husband were both negative.” Miriam paused as she fought back her tears “I found out I was positive. Right away I knew I must have gotten infected through IV drugs. I really didn’t care about myself, but I begged God to spare Lily.” Taking a deep breath, Miriam continued, “I told God I’d be happy to get really sick and suffer anything, anything at all, but to please let them find out the tests were wrong, that it was a different kind of virus, one that Lily would recover from. But she only keeps getting sicker. “I feel so guilty. About four years ago I lived in Boston, not far from here and I was hanging out with the wrong people. I just sort of slipped into that life. Then I met my husband, Jack, and everything changed. I got clean and we moved to Vermont. Everything was so good, like a dream. Then Lily got sick.” “How’s your husband handling all this?” I asked. “I don’t know. Okay, I guess. He's not HIV positive, so that's good." She paused before adding, "But it’s not the same as it was. He doesn’t talk much. Sometimes I think he’s angry, but he doesn’t admit it. He hardly spends any time with Lily anymore. It’s like Lily is mine and Francie is his. And then he has this mother. My mother-in-law. She never liked me. Now she blames me. That’s okay though, it is my fault.” “That all sounds so hard,” I offered. I wanted to know more about her, but I hesitated, deciding it wasn't right to ask. "What’s really going to be hard…” Miriam offered, looking at Lily. Her eyes filled and I knew she was thinking about how hard it was going to be to lose her daughter. Rather than finish the sentence, she stood up and kissed the top of Lily’s head. My heart opened. “Take your time, I have all day.” "Mommy'll be back soon," Miriam cooed. Then she turned and walked out of the room, pausing for just a moment to look back at us with a smile. I sat with Lily in the rocking chair trying to find a gentle rhythm that would be soothing for us both. The sterile hospital room lacked the cheerful images painted on the hallway walls. There was a crib with bars that lowered so that it could also be used as a changing table, a small table with two drawers, a shopping bag and a diaper bag set aside behind the bathroom door and a large window. I knew the window offered a broad view of Boston but there wasn't much to see from my seat in the rocking chair and getting up would disturb Lily. I rocked and Lily slept. When I stopped rocking, Lily squirmed a little, as if to say, “What’s up with this?” and I would resume my rocking. After about an hour the nurse came in and we talked for a few minutes. Lily slept through the visit. Things were going well. I said to myself, “this is going to be easier than I thought.” And it was going well until I needed to use the bathroom. Though the bathroom was right there, it was impossible to avoid putting Lily down. She didn’t just cry, she howled as if she was in tremendous physical pain, so I pushed the call button that was on the end of a cord Miriam had draped over the arm of the rocking chair. The nurse came in and agreed to hold her for a minute, but not without comment. “You know, she really needs to learn how to be alone in her crib some of the time. She wouldn’t cry like that if someone wasn’t always holding her,” the nurse stated matter-of-factly. “Yeah, but not today,” I replied, thinking the nurse was being rather hard hearted. I reasoned that if Lily only had only a short time left to live and all she wanted out of life was to be held, then she should be held. |
Peggy Newman's first career was working with special needs adolescents and her second was directing a residence for people with AIDS. After returning to school to become a chaplain, Peg spent many years working in hospitals and prisons. Currently she is working on a memoir. Peg lives in Boston and is passionate about her prison reform volunteer work.
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