qing ming festival
 

thomas day
april 6, 2003
 
 

Yesterday was a special day in China.   Qing Ming, which means clear and bright in Chinese, is the name of the festival.  It is both the fifth term in the traditional lunar calendar and a festival to hold memorial ceremony for the dead.   It is a time to express one's grief for his lost relatives.  People often go to sweep and weed graves with whole family and take a walk in the countryside as well.

I wanted to go to the graveside of a dear friend of mine yesterday, but I will  wait.  I will wait because there are more important things to do today.   I must write poetry for peace.  I must act in the only way I can act.  I write to ensure that no more families have to spend a special day, whether it is Memorial Day or Veteran's Day or the festival of Qing Ming -- cleaning the grave sites of the ones murdered by their state, by their country, by their politics, by the greed.

My friend Thomas was diagnosed early with HIV and after a few relapses, finally went into recovery and stayed clean and sober.  I met him in a meeting where he shared that his God might not forgive him for his sins.  I knew right away that Thomas and I were to share many years together.  Indeed we did.

Thomas was also diagnosed with severe mental illness which manifested in ways that you or I can never imagine.  It was very difficult for him to take a bus and he would not drive. I would take him to his doctor appointments and to his classes. He was learning Spanish, his fourth language.  He paid me for the gas to drive from the mountains to the city and for the right to sit at his side and become his friend.

Thomas was my "best girlfriend" and we could talk about anything. When he was diagnosed with diabetes, I talked to him about what my life has been like living with a chronic illness that can kill if not carefully attended to.  When he was diagnosed with Hepatitis C, he was told that the medications they could give him for the liver disease would drop his T-cell count, and his HIV would blast into AIDS -- and cloud him all that AIDS can create.

Thomas had a choice.  He chose to live in his parent's basement, attend church with his grandparents every Sunday, go to at least three twelve-step meetings every day -- and when I wasn't in town, he chose to call me and talk for at least an hour about everything from gardens to death.  He lived for eight years this way.

During this time, I got sick and was in the hospital, later in a nursing home, and then finally was home facing life in a wheelchair. Thomas sent me a get well or an "I love you" or a silly card every single day.  Every day.  HE sent me a card.

Two years ago he was told that his diseases were catching up with him and that he probably had a year to live.  He had choices again.

He could quit taking care of his diabetes and go into a coma.  Then his loved ones would have to make the decision to take him off life support.

He could die of AIDS and the horror that the disease causes to both the PWA and the people around him.  Or he could die of Hepatitis C.

He asked what that would be like.  He decided that he could die with an inflated belly that had to be "tapped" every once in a while, that he could live on oxygen because it would cause pressure on his diaphragm and make it hard to breath, that he could let someone take care of his hygiene needs, that he could start to look for a hospice.

Thomas asked me to take him to the hospice on April first of last year.  I was happy to do so, as that was his wish.  His family didn't want to take him; they would be facing the fact that he wasn't going to live on their couch any more, that he really was going to die. He told them he would take a cab or call me.

I had the privilege of sitting by his bedside those last few weeks before we went to the hospice, as he was afraid to go to sleep alone.  I was with him at the hospice for as many days as I could physically visit and drive the three hour round trip drive.  I am not in a wheelchair, I am not a sick person, I am not a phone friend.

I asked Thomas if I could read the Tibetan Book of the Dead for him. He thought that was okay, as long as I didn't do any of that "daoist stuff" at his funeral.  I read while he was sleeping.  At his Catholic funeral, I knelt and sang the hymns.  And his God, if any kindness or benevolence lurks in it, will see the life of compassion, kindness, and benevolence that Thomas lived.

Today would have been Thomas' 36th birthday.  He got to celebrate his 35th birthday in the hospice.  I was at his side for many many days. One day I left, knowing that he was severely ill.  My car wouldn't start. I stayed the night on the couch in the family room.

Thomas died that night, with his family around him.  His grandfather held my hand.  I touched my dear Thomas' foot, whispering to him that it was okay to merge.

He passed away softly, alert to his last day.  It was April 15, 2002.
 

When the heart weeps for what it has lost,
the spirit laughs for what it has gained.

 
 
 

I will visit his grave on the day that everyone else is worried about
taxes.  I will  tear off the sod near his gravestone and there, I will
line his face with his favorite plant, thyme.   Not just regular thyme,
but mother of thyme.

Mother of thyme.  The gift that Thomas gives me every day.
 

And I will pray for peace.
 

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