Full of Poison, One Good Vein
**Disclaimer: All of the names in this piece are changed for the privacy of the characters involved, who all play a part in creating this good story…and because all of what I’m about to share with you is true. This is my truth.
In righteousness shall you judge your fellow.
Leviticus 19:15
***
We’re sitting on the couch after our Thanksgiving meal: my mom Nancy, my Aunt Susie, my Uncle Lior, my cousin Talia, and myself. We’re having, yet again, another conversation about him.
Does he think about us as much as we think about him? Probably not. That selfish bastard.
My aunt (his sister) asks: “What can he do to make you want to be in the same room as him? We have such joy in our family and I just want him to be part of it.” Clearly she’s delusional because the answer to that question is nothing. Why does she think that he is ever going to change?
My uncle (his brother-in-law) answers: “He’s the only man I know that can make ‘please’ sound like a command in five languages. He’s rude and unpleasant to be around. And that’s not changing anytime soon so stop holding onto hope that doesn’t exist.” But is this the way he’s always been or can we blame the illness for turning him into the monster that he is? Why do I care?
I chime in: “What I’m struggling with is how do I judge him favorably? He’s a horrible human being, but do I make an excuse—write him off as the dying man he is? I have to…right?”
Cancer is a terminal illness.
My doctor says so is life.
***
“GET ME MY MEDS! In the living room, in the front pocket of my black knapsack. Go home, get them, and bring them here!” he screams from his hospital bed.
“Charlie, I can’t get you your meds,” Hernando, my uncle’s caretaker, answers, in a quiet and defeated tone.
“Why? Did Sonya steal them? That’s all she needed me for anyway. Don’t trust her. You can’t trust her. Don’t you dare leave her in my house alone. All that bitch wants from me is my medication.”
My dad is on his phone, pretending to read emails, so he doesn’t have to deal with reality. I can feel Hernando, staring at my back, his eyes full of sorrow and guilt. I stare at the white board, full of information about Charlie’s vital signs and pain level. I can’t understand any of it, but at least I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone.
I’m biting my tongue.
Judge favorably. Judge favorably. Judge favorably.
Fuck.
It’s 11:30 at night; the room is full of beeping sounds from different machines that connect my uncle to oxygen, food, and his life. He’s not breathing on his own, but they say that’s normal. A dying man lay before me. You can practically see the white light illuminating over his head. Or maybe that’s just the ghostly color of his skin. It’s scary; he’s in his fifties but he looks like my grandpa—old and incredibly thin, with his big brown eyes bulging out of their sockets. His once brown full head of hair has now turned into a skimp amount of salt and pepper that sprinkles his head. The freckles that used to line his eyes have become wrinkles that remind my family of this cruel disease that has taken ownership of his body. Infection has infiltrated every artery, which has left him with only one good vein. They say it’s a miracle that he’s alive. I sometimes find it hard to agree.
Unfortunately, it is not our first time here. My uncle was diagnosed with cancer six years ago. Since then, his lifestyle has been a pattern: Charlie seeks alternative treatment; flies to either Colombia, Germany, or Australia so he can inject non-FDA approved poison into his body in an attempt to kill off the cancer; gets really sick because his body can’t handle the intensity of the drug, and he can’t find adequate health care in these countries; builds up just enough strength to fly home; gets picked up by an ambulance from the airport, and rushes straight to the ICU. Just like clockwork. And yet, he still does it; he’s addicted to staying alive. And his addiction is going to kill him; in his desperate attempt to stay alive, he will die. Finally.
I wasn’t even supposed to be here. Three nights ago, my parents and I were at their mountain home, in North Carolina. We were having dinner with a few family friends when my dad got a call. It was from my uncle’s best friend. He told my dad, “If you ever want to see your brother again, I suggest you come home.”
We thanked everyone for coming and even handed back the bottle of wine that my parents’ friends had brought for dinner. We packed up, hit the road early the next morning, and drove fourteen hours straight to the hospital.
You may ask if this happens so often, why do we need to come home? Why is this time different? But it’s not different—he’s just not getting any better. And the routine will keep happening until, one day, it no longer happens. And he’ll keep barking orders because he knows people will come to his beckon call. Is he manipulating us again or is it human nature to want to tend to a dying man’s needs?
I’ve never really had a relationship with my uncle because, frankly, he’s never been a particularly nice guy. My parents did everything they could to keep my four siblings and myself away from him, because they did not like the way he spoke or acted toward other people. Except for obligatory family dinners, I never really got to know him. It is as if he was the poison of our family. And now, with every heartbeat, poison is pumping through his own body.
Charlie has a wife (whom he’s been cheating on with another stage-four cancer patient while getting alternative treatment in Australia), two kids (whom he tells they’ll never be good enough), and an addictive personality (one that causes him to spend all day, every day, at local casinos). I wish I could tell you that it has not always been this way and he used to be really compassionate and it is just the cancer speaking. But that is just not the truth. He’s always been manipulative, narcissist, selfish, rude, and unpleasant. And yet, I feel a need to judge him favorably. Why? He’s one of those people who would only engage in conversation with you if it were beneficial to him. My mom tells me that he used to go out for dinner with my grandpa. At first, she thought it was a nice gesture. “Oh, so there is at least one good bone in his body,” she would say to herself. And then she realized that the only reason he would go to dinner was because my grandpa paid for it. Why are we convincing ourselves that he’s something he’s not? Are we just projecting what we want him to be like onto him? He’s making it so hard for me to judge him favorably.
Yet, every time we get a call from the hospital, we are all at his bedside: my parents, my two aunts (his sisters) and their husbands, we kids when we’re home, Charlie’s wife, his girlfriend (Sonya), and his caretaker, Hernando. Day in, day out, we rotate who gets to sit next to my uncle as he goes in and out of consciousness and slowly continues to die. Why do we do this? He’s so manipulative, making everyone suffer through the pain with him. I watch him, and almost think it would be easier if I pulled out his wires myself. At least it would end our suffering. But family is family, right?
Judge favorably. Judge favorably. Judge favorably.
Fuck.
It’s really strange seeing the different stages of his mood. Before he gets his prescribed drugs, he’s screaming at anyone in his path. He lashes out, pulls out his wires, and yells in agony. Who could blame him? He’s in pain. When he’s doped up, he gets reminiscent and nostalgic. He makes me hold his hand, and talks about what it’s like to see me all grown up. And I see a lonely man who resents the rest of the world for living. What have I done to make you resent me?
I can’t understand it.
It’s like dealing with split personalities: One minute, I think about his funeral as a happy occasion, one where our suffering can end; and the next, I’m praying to whomever is up there to take away his pain. Because at the end of the day, despite how manipulative and horrible he is, he’s lying in that hospital bed, ninety pounds lighter and seemingly forty years older, so helpless and alone—in so much pain. I will never know his pain, so who am I to criticize his actions? Judge favorably. Is he an inherently bad man or is it just his circumstance? Judge favorably. Is it the pain speaking or am I just using that as an excuse? Fuck.
Why do I care so much?
So in this moment, I bite my tongue harder. And I repeat to myself, “Judge favorably, judge favorably, judge favorably.”
But I can’t do it.
***
I often wonder why he hasn’t changed his life around. I’d like to think a dying man would want to spend his last moments with his kids and his family, as opposed to in the casino for eight hours a day, gambling away all of the money he doesn’t have. But judge favorably, right?
It didn’t click until this moment: it is midnight and Charlie, my dad, and I are sitting in his hospital room. Skimp night for visitors; Charlie isn’t letting us forget that. He’s moved to a different floor of the hospital for testing; one that has less nurses and less specialized attention, but the same amount of beeping sounds, wires, and pity. We’re having a conversation about programming iPhones and using Siri (the talking devise installed in iPhones). He’s telling us that Adam, his son, taught him how to use it during one of the rare occurrences they had together. So he does have a heart.
He turns to my dad and me and says, “Watch this,” and then says to his phone, “Siri, call ‘sister Susan.’” Siri then replies, in a robotic, yet almost endearing way, “Calling Susan, Strong and Healthy One.”
Strong and healthy one. He’s programmed his phone to call him “strong and healthy one.” What the fuck?
My mouth drops. I’ve never seen someone with such determination to survive. Why does he want to live so badly? It is in this moment when I finally understand why he spends his days gambling, why he continuously barks orders at anyone who will respond, why he hasn’t changed his attitude, why he’s a blatant asshole, and why he’s still alive. He doesn’t want to admit he’s dying. He’s addicted to staying alive and resents anyone who reminds him that he’s dying. He doesn’t have the clarity about reprioritizing his life because he refuses to admit that he’s at that point in his life. He is his first priority, and therefore so is his survival. But who can blame him?
I went home that and couldn’t stop my mind from racing. The poor man wants to live and everyone keeps reminding him that that’s not happening. Maybe instead of trying to judge favorably, I should just judge with compassion. Should I swallow my pride and sit with him while he fights, obey his commands, and just wish him as many moments without pain as possible? He may be an ass, but he doesn’t deserve to die in agony.
Is this his one good vein—his desperate determination to fight this shit?
***
The Talmud (Jewish law) teaches a mitzvah (good deed): for better or worse, we all constantly judge each other, often based on words or actions. Thus, we are held accountable for giving people the benefit of the doubt—assuming they are doing the best they can in this exact moment. We must aim to see the good in each other even when it isn’t warranted. I do not know his pain, so I cannot judge him. He’s still a good person, right?
For three years now, this mitzvah has been my Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) resolution. To me, it’s the most important aspect of Judaism—this idea that everyone is always just doing his or her absolute best. A little naïve maybe, but I like to think it’s possible. Every year, I set to do it but fall short and continue to talk about people behind their backs, to make assumptions and generalizations about people whom I interact with, and to flat out fail to commit to it.
But why?
There’s an awareness that it’s happening—that I’m committing this crime—but the acts simply do not follow. Yes, I’ve gotten better but perhaps only due to the fact that I have sticky notes all over my room, reminding me to do so. Don’t get me wrong; there have been instances when it has worked quite well: When I’m in a rush to check out at the supermarket and the person in front of me is taking forever, and I get really impatient and annoyed, only to realize that the person is visually impaired and, therefore, needs a few extra minutes to check out at the supermarket. Or when my roommate lashes out at me for no apparent reason, and I want to hold it against them—put her in her place—only to realize that she’s had a very bad day because her mother is sick, and she feels hopeless and alone.
Yet in that moment, in ICU room #417, I could not judge favorably. And I couldn’t help but think at what point does judging favorably become an excuse for people’s actions? What if some people are inherently bad and don’t deserve to be judged with kindness and compassion? Or are we all products of our upbringing and environments and, therefore, doing the best we can at this exact moment because we don’t know any better?
Is it even possible to judge favorably?
***
My uncle is not a nice man. He’s manipulative and selfish and unwilling to go down without a fight. He is dying and in pain—a lot of it—and is desperately grasping for every breath even if it causes his body to shut down. So is it the pain? Do I blame the pain and judge favorably; even though his pain is causing even more pain to the people I love the most? At what point do I say enough?
He is full of poison. Yet he still has one good vein.