There have been two significant deaths at Patchwork in the last month. In mid-December, we received the news that one of our regular hospitality guests, James, had died of a sudden and unexpected heart attack. About a week before Christmas, several staff and guests from Patchwork attended his funeral.
James was a tall, quiet, African-American man. He was the definition of a “Gentle Giant.” James usually sat by himself or walked about slowly, hands clasped behind his back. Often, one might hear him whispering or muttering quietly under his breath. He would exchange introductory pleasantries, but rarely engage in conversation more deeply than that. Still, his presence was felt strongly by those around him. His aura of steadfast calm will be greatly missed at Patchwork.
At the memorial service, many recalled James’ patient and caring love for his family and friends. His nephew, who preached and led the service, remembered how he wished he could slam-dunk a basketball just like Uncle James. It was a moving service.
A few days after Christmas, I received a call from a hospital social worker. She asked if I recognized the name “Michael ______.” It took a little while, but eventually, I figured out who she meant. Michael was another regular guest of Patchwork Central’s Neighborhood Hospitality.
Michael was in the ICU and needed to be intubated. While on the ventilator, patients need to be sedated, meaning that they are not able to make health care decisions for themselves. Therefore, they need a designated Health Care Representative to make decisions for them. When the social worker asked Michael whom he would want making his health care decisions, he answered, “John or Amy Rich at Patchwork Central.” I agreed to be his Health Care Representative.
After several days on the ventilator, the doctors were able to extubate Michael, but he was not out of the woods. He still had significant medical problems and needed to stay in the ICU. More touch-and-go days came and went, and finally, it looked as if Michael was making slow but steady progress in a positive direction. The team caring for Michael was starting to make plans for his transfer to less intensive care.
Then, last Saturday evening, the ICU doctor called and told me that Michael had no pulse. The hospital staff had been performing CPR on him for the last 15 minutes, but it was not making any difference … and did not look as if it was going to. I made the difficult decision to give the “Do Not Resuscitate” (DNR) order and to stop CPR. Michael died shortly thereafter.
Michael had also been a regular, soft-spoken presence at Patchwork for a long time. Just before the holiday break, Michael brought in several small, hand-made, fabric Christmas trees as gifts for Patchwork’s staff and volunteers.
We may think of grief and mourning as highly personal—or at least familial—acts. However, grief can and should be shared, a communal act. There are many individuals that our wider society has deemed unworthy of grief. Marginalized and “invisible-ized” people do not need to be mourned. James and Michael were two such people. People who suffered from mental illness. People who were likely seen by many as not contributing anything valuable to society.
Thus, to insist on grieving these “un-grievable” people is a radical act. I think this is what Jesus meant when he included in his Beatitudes, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Blessed are those who grieve the loss of EVERY child of God. Blessed are those who memorialize the marginalized. Blessed are those who cry out in full-throated sorrow for those whom society deems “un-grievable.”
These people were not just “program participants” at Patchwork. They were not cardboard cut-out recipients of services and hand-outs. They were full, beautiful, messy, nuanced, useful, valuable human beings. And we grieve their loss.