‘Please Move Now, Please Don’t Be Dead’
I am haunted by my behavior, ashamed of myself as I write this.
I had walked to the park to watch my boyfriend play basketball, bringing a book to keep me company, and planted myself under a tree.
A noise interrupted my reading--a homeless man setting up in the safe nook of two brick walls. I studied him--young, white, short hair. He spread a dirty, gray blanket on unfriendly concrete and methodically straightened it out. He walked away toward a patch of grass. I stretched my head to see over the brick wall separating us. He began to scuffle and I realized he was trying to lift another man. The other man dropped, slamming onto the grass. The first guy yelled at him, but tried again to pick him up. He slammed to the grass again, dead weight. The guy tried a third time. Again to the grass. It’s impossible to tell what the relationship between the two men was. Finally and with all his strength, he threw the man over his shoulder, carried the slumped, lifeless body to the nook, dropped him onto the dirty blanket and disappeared. No one helped; it’s a park full of people and no one helped.
The noise of a basketball pick-up game continued; a volleyball game ended as a soccer game began. As I sat 30 feet away, the man lay with his shirt accidentally hiked up, revealing a chest and stomach that weren’t moving up and down.
I’ve only seen one dead person in my life, my great aunt Betty. She was old, lived a full life, all that stuff. But this guy was young and he laying on cold cement and still not moving.
I began to pray. Please move, please move now. Please don’t be dead. I imagined myself administering CPR, even though I don’t know CPR. I imagined jumping on top of him, pumping his chest like the nurses and doctors on ER. I imagined the ambulance that would come to collect his body, while I admitted to the emergency technicians that I didn’t do anything to save him. They stood there nodding, the kids playing basketball and volleyball nod. Everyone nodded.
I prayed harder. Please move, please move. Please don’t die here, in front of me.
Finally, his stomach jumped, convulsed. I exhaled and relief flooded my body. I wanted to scream and shout, “He’s alive, he’s alive, thank you Jesus!” I felt myself breathing again, color returning to my face. Now, I didn’t have to go to him and check for a pulse or a heartbeat. Now, I could go back to reading and forget the whole mess. I didn’t have to get close, get involved. I didn’t have to touch him, smell him. My lips didn’t have to touch his while trying to breathe life back into him.
I dropped my head in shame.
His stomach and chest continued to move--sporadic, unhealthy. Under my tree, in that park, I examined my relief. Was I ready to sing gospel music because this man was alive? Because human life is precious? Would I actually have continued sitting, watching, as he died in front of me? And all because he is who he is? What if this was a child, or one of the guys playing basketball? Where were all my do-gooder philosophies?
I walked away from this park and this man to my new apartment, with a shower and air conditioning and a balcony and clean sheets.
The man in the nook on the dirty, gray blanket didn’t. He laid there, on cold cement, chest and stomach exposed, no shoes on. He needed help. I didn’t give him any.
