56 Bathing
Opening the door to the bathroom I am met by half a dozen smiling faces, and we greet each other as a new day begins. All the people gathered here – in wheelchairs, on a potty, or simply lying on the floor – are here because they are prone to incontinence, some because of mental or physical handicap, others because of old age. One young man, paralysed from the waist down, only goes to the toilet once every other day, for which I thank God, because for some unknown reason the stench from his stool is quite overpowering. The nightwatchman who helps me with the bathing appears, his scarf wrapped over his face – when I first saw him in this guise I laughed, thinking that he was overreacting, but later I came to admire his prudence. Last year I did all the work myself, but this year my helper, in all humility, has taken it upon himself to clear up the kaka, as it is known in Sinhala, before handing the culprit over to me for bathing.
We always start with the same old man, someone I know from last year when he was much more able, but who is now rapidly approaching his end. He’s a good one to start with, being cooperative and still fairly mobile, but once he’s gone it becomes increasingly chaotic in the bathroom, as bodies are hauled around, women workers come demanding hot water for washing the clothes, but find themselves unable to bear the air. The washrooms and the toilets are joined, and others arrive expecting to get access so as to relieve themselves in one way or another, something that is not always possible, and others still are brought in to join the queue. In the middle of all this I wash and rinse, dry and dress, and occasionally apply medicine to those suffering from scabies or other problems. Actually bathing a person in these circumstances requires great diligence, in order to note any changes in physical condition or general health. it can also require great patience as not everyone is happy to be given such personal attention, and yet the job must be done.
he’s angry today
he will not come!
he throws up his arms
he’ll certainly not come!
then I’m washing another
when I see at the door
a sorry look on his face
my friend’s here once more
he’ll sit while I wash
and he’ll look away
and swear to himself
not to come here again
The mentally retarded, the physically handicapped, and those who are old, sick, or maybe dying – all such people often have certain physical needs that have to be attended to, maybe they can’t eat or wash by themselves, perhaps they are incontinent. In such work there is a delicate balance that needs to be maintained between being methodical and efficient on the one hand, and being patient and caring on the other. In working with such people there is a great opportunity for the life of God to be born into the world, but so often I have seen that instead of these times of need being taken as an occasion for the building of loving relationships, they are seen as an end in themselves, and so when we’ve washed, clothed, and fed these people, we feel we’ve done our duty, we’ve done what we can. So often we separate ourselves from others by doing things for them, or by giving and not allowing them to give back. Indeed one may feel that they have nothing to give, and in a material way it might be true, but all people have this capacity for love, and in the end that is what truly matters. But love implies taking time and care to be with somebody and in a world governed by an ethic of productivity such uneconomic behaviour is looked upon without favour or understanding. In this, as in everything else, quality is sacrificed for the sake of quantity.