I meet with a lot of people who suffer from Alzheimers, which is in my opinion the cruelest disease there is. Many medical personnel have commented, “well, the patient really isn’t suffering”, but as a chaplain I look at the whole picture and how everyone in the family is affected. I don’t accept that the patient does not suffer, and Angel was a good example of this: there was a restlessness to him that drove his behavior. He was always dissatisfied, whether it was his angry ramblings about God or his upset over "that church over there across the street" (he would gesture to an open field). The one thing I never understood was why he could name every person in the pictures on his dresser, except himself. The large picture of Angel smiling for the camera, he always insisted, was a picture of his father. After a while, I accepted this as true.
Like many hospice patients, Angel's health declined very slowly, and at one point he was discharged from the hospice service because he no longer met MediCare's criteria for people who qualify for hospice. Within two months, however, he was readmitted after a severe stroke which left him severely speech impaired. He was a vastly different man this time; his vacant stare no longer held anger but he still appeared unhappy. One Friday I called his son long distance in Arizona, wanting to establish connection with his family (they were difficult to contact by phone). Angel Jr was very accommodating, explaining that his younger brother (who lived close by and had POA for his father's affairs) worked quite a distance from his home and was often traveling when I would try to call. Jr verified that the picture on the bureau was indeed his own father, adding that he did not understand why his dad would insist it was his grandfather. We spoke briefly of the things Angel said, and how he could be unintentionally funny, and at the end of the call Jr asked that when I sensed the time was close for his dad, would I please notify him because he had a sister still living on the east coast who would need assistance in traveling to California for the funeral. I agreed and we ended our call. Literally 20 minutes later, just as I finished charting our contact, my work cell phone rang. Angel had just died; could I take care of it and offer support to the family? Stunned, I agreed and called Jr right away. Then I headed over to the facility, where I met Jorge, the son who lived locally and had a "difficult relationship" with his dad, according to Jr.
Jorge and his wife, along with their 11-year-old son, arrived not longer after I did. I told them how sorry I was, and that Angel was one of my favorite patients. They asked if I were his RN; when I said I was the chaplain, they looked confused. Laughing, I explained that I'd always understood that Angel was an atheist but it didn't stop us from having good meetings. Jorge was polite but guarded with me. He admitted that he shared his father's atheism once he realized I would not judge. He said that it probably stemmed from both men having been very cerebral and scientific in their careers as well as in their approach to life. He also confirmed that he did not have the best relationship with his father, though he did not share the reasons. I asked his wife Laura if I might attend the funeral; she asked for my card and said she would call the office with information once it was scheduled. Laura called me three days later with the pertinent information, and six days after Angel died I went over to the mortuary where the wake was held. Jr was there, with his wife, children and grandchildren; he greeted me warmly and they all had a good laugh that the chaplain had so enjoyed meeting with an angry atheist. Privately, though, Jr shared his father's life story with me.
Angel was just 18 when the US entered WWII; as a native of Puerto Rico, he was a citizen of the US and like most men of his generation he signed up to serve because his ideals told him it was the right thing to do. On his way from basic training somewhere in the deep south to the coast for deployment, he witnessed a mob dragging a Black man to a tree, to lynch him. Appalled, he grabbed his service weapon and prepared to exit the bus. His commanding officer barked that he must sit down and said, "it's not our business." Angel watched helplessly as the man was murdered by citizens of a country he was marching off to defend. Less than a month later he was deployed to the Philippines; though he spent three years there, Jr told me that Angel never said one word to his children about what he witnessed there. I can only imagine the atrocities he witnessed near Bataan. I was horrified to hear the things he had suffered as an idealistic young man, but it offered a great deal of insight into why he was so angry whenever he spoke about God. He probably thought if there were truly a God, such ugliness would not occur. It's one of the biggest misconceptions I encounter in atheistic friends - that somehow only God (or A God) is capable of good, decent behavior. Yet he himself clearly understood the difference between good and evil. If he had not, he would never have been so haunted by his experiences. How I wish we had met when he could still communicate his thoughts. Not to change or challenge his views, but to affirm that he had lived life as a good, decent man.
Jr had informed me on the phone that Angel enjoyed the music of Tito Puente, but I never got the chance to share it with him. Instead, some months later, I encountered another 90-something Puerto Rican patient, a delightful woman with a sassy mouth and a penchant for dark chocolate, who also enjoyed this artist. Late one morning I drove to the residential facility where Celia lived, with the intention of playing the music for her. The sun nearly always shines in Los Angeles, but on this day it seemed especially bright and beautiful. I was struck by the intensity of the golden rays as I got out my CD player and a disc of the best of Tito Puente. As I shut the door of my car, it dawned on me that it was April 24. Angel’s birthday. Staring up at that beautiful sun, I felt tears sting my eyes as I thought of all he’d witnessed in his life. Simultaneously I knew deep in my soul that he was in a better place, and that there was no need to define or defend what he believed about a higher power. His presence shone through that sun powerfully, and with a small smile, I said happy birthday and went inside to meet with someone else.
