A Death & A Deliverance - Part V

The first time I met Jinny, I couldn’t stand her. She was the gushy, chatty girlfriend of my son, Julian, and she walked around radiating almost unbearable positive energy despite the fact that, at 32 years old, she was terminally ill. It was almost too late before I began to see her in a different light. 

THIS IS PART 5 of a SEVEN-PART STORY

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

 

Jinny & Nicole

Jinny looked completely different from when I first met her. Her hair was drawn up under a yellow knitted cap and the skin on her cheeks was gray and patchy. But she broke into a big smile when she saw me. “Come in, have a seat,” she called out. I was worried that we wouldn’t have things to talk about, but I needn’t have concerned myself on that score: Jinny, as always, had plenty to say. “Here, have a Coke,” she sang, pushing a can toward me. Her white hospital gown was twisted around her plump body. She was buried deep under the covers, and it was clear she wasn’t feeling well, but she managed to be hospitable, calling the nurse for more ice water and graham crackers and another pillow to prop herself up on. The nurses loved her. Everyone loved her – the girl who was gravely ill, but always had a smile of gratitude on her face for each person who knocked on the door and entered her room. Seeing that, I felt mean for every bad thought I’d ever had about her. It struck me that she was truly appreciated and valued by all the nurses and orderlies who cared for her physical needs. So what was wrong with me that I didn’t give two figs about this sweet, talkative girl who was my son’s girlfriend?

I had no choice but to be kind to her. So I pulled up a chair, and we began to talk about family matters: my daughter, Gabi, who was about to have a baby; my other daughter, Jofka, who’d just bought a house and owned a drooling mastiff as big as a mountain.

As we talked, I relaxed and realized I was enjoying the conversation. This was the first visit of many.

I’d be driving around and the thought would pop into my head: why not visit Jinny? So I’d head for the hospital and my seat at Jinny’s bedside. These visits, I soon understood, were as important for me as for Jinny. Not only was I getting to know her in a more intimate way, but the time I spent at her bedside afforded me a few moments of calm and sanity in a busy, complicated life.

But she was a sick girl. They’d run out of fixes for her – the various chemo treatments they’d administered had stopped working, and there were no more options. It was hard to acknowledge that. The healthy-looking girl burrowed down among the pillows in her narrow bed was going to die, no matter what they did.