By Katie Iossi

April 14th, 2003

The reason I feel extra motivated to write in my journal today after such a long period of
time is not usual. I am not writing because I am confused about my career path,
concerned about a relationship, or in need of analyzing friendships. Miguel died last
night, and I was holding his hand when he took his last breath.

It was really so good. I am, of course, so sad at the loss of my friend of almost two years.
I don't think it has hit me yet that he is truly gone, but I was so glad to be there! For
selfish reasons… because in my time with the hospice, I had never been with, or as Mary
would say, "accompanied," someone as they died and because it made me feel good that I
might have made him happy, or at least slightly reassured, by being there, but also
because I think I made a difference for him. It wasn't all peaceful and joyous… he was
anxious for a while, and scared. And I didn't know how or if to comfort him (why would
my saying, "it's okay, it'll be okay" reassure anyone? I've never been there, I don't know
if it would be okay). He was very sad, although the last word he said to me when I
visited earlier this week was "tranquille"… and I know he had come to terms with the
fact that his time was coming. He'd shared this with his relatives, even videotaping their
discussion, and with his family at Joseph's House. Me, even, with his ever-protective
and caring attitude, showing appreciation for my small actions almost more for my sake
than as an expression of any deep satisfaction he took in my fluttering, stumbling ways.
In his words to us, by his smiles, through the thumbs-up sign he made with both hands in
the pictures he asked me to take, he told us he was okay and he was ready.

And yet, during the last hour and a half, no two hours, he was crying, just a trickle of
tears down his cheek from his left eye that I'd wipe away with a Kleenex. Although once
he found the energy to wipe them away on his own with his tired but strong fingers. It
was a steady stream. And I tried to reassure him with my hand in his, squeezing, rubbing
his dry and leathery, soft and firm fingers. I said a few words to him, remembering times
we'd shared, talking about his family and our Joseph's House family. I told him that we
all cared for him, that he had so many people who cared for him. I don't know that I ever
told him what I now wish so very much I had… and told him over and over again. That
he was loved and cherished, that we'd all miss him so terribly, but that we were fine with
him leaving. I wish I'd told him that I loved him. Maybe I did, but I don't remember.

At least up until the last 20 minutes of his life, he could hear, understand, and respond in
some way. Soon after I arrived, he wanted the sheets underneath him straightened out
and motioned this to me. Paul and Carlos helped me move him. Then he wanted the
covers pulled down and was feeling anxious. A few times he grasped my hand and
squeezed. At first I thought maybe he didn't want me to hold his hand or even to touch
him, but as the night went on, I realized he liked it—I felt myself becoming more
comfortable and sure of myself and my care for him.

Carlos came in to talk to me in the middle of our time, and I think Miguel was listening to
his ramblings, maybe even agreeing with him at some points.

Miguel's breathing became raspier as time went by. It was amazing how in-tune I was
able to become to changes in his breathing in just the span of a few hours. His breathing
became raspier and his eyes were tearing, and he was a little anxious, and then, not very.
I was kind of hoping he was going to go very peacefully and soon. I remember some men
from last year being in terrible pain before they died. For the first hour and a half I
couldn't tell that he was very close to his time, and wondered if he could survive even a
few more days. After all, I had been surprised before, when men who were so sick and
struggled to stay alive longer than anyone thought they would.

I thought of William and Jason and Jeffrey who had all died in the same small, square
room, and I think now of Eric and Boo. I thought of Esteban and Carl (who died in the
hospital) and of Kahil and Mickey (who'd only passed a few weeks ago and who I'd
missed being with at all). I thought of Andy and his antics, and I thought of Merlin who
died alone in his cold empty apartment, without anyone he'd loved and who loved him
nearby. I thought of John and his 60th birthday party and Marcus in the big room with the
billowing curtains.

And I thought of Miguel laughing and flirting with me and everyone else in the house. I
remember him jumping from behind a corner to scare me a few weeks ago, his blue eyes
sparkling and his voice happy and strong, shouting "hah!" I thought of how it was never
easy for us to communicate through our language barrier, and how it was difficult to
know what he was thinking or was trying to say, but that we still had so much fun and
cared deeply for one another.

I am thinking now of how in the past few months, he'd say "when?" as I was leaving.
When was I coming to visit next?

And I remember cutting his nails and his patience when I accidentally cut his skin (still
have to work on those surgical skills). I remember sitting next to him at dinner and
learning Spanish from him.

"I like shrimp."

"Me gusta camarones."

Of him taking my plate and the end of meals and motioning me to stay seated.

I remember him saying to me, "you no love me no more," when I cut my hair short, and
his conveying to me many times after that I was not allowed to cut my hair again, that it
was, "good, good," as it was because it was growing longer.

I remember laughing with him.

I remember eating mangos and pupusas with him I remember twirling leaves around in
my hand at the park with him.

I remember Mary saying in a staff meeting, "I just want to keep him forever." I think we
all felt that way!

He was amazing. He was kind and sweet and courageous and loving and generous and
dignified and honorable.

And so I cried after he died, as I sat there not knowing what to do. Carlos called Mary
and the hospice nurses. I had counted his breaths, rather, the seconds between his
breaths, for a bit of time, and something in me had just known the end was near—it must
have been his breathing—for twenty minutes or so. And I held his hand and stroked his
arm and face, his cheeks and his eyebrows, his forehead. What a magical, mysterious
experience.

I did not let go of his hand right away, not wanting to let go—of the man or the
moment—but did and hugged Mary and Carlos and went home. Glad and sad and
amazed and thankful.

Joseph's House is a hospice for formerly homeless men living with HIV and AIDS in
inner city Washington, D.C. I worked there as an AmeriCorps member for a year from
the fall of 2001 to the fall of 2002 and remained a friend and volunteer until I moved to
Iowa City in August of 2003. Many names have been changed to protect individuals'
privacy.