I stood by Mr. Ditto’s bedside at the hour
of his death. He looked like a small black doll against the whiteness of the
pillow, his old head almost buried in its deep folds. His pulse was hardly perceptible,
and I felt a strange awareness of a transformation taking place, as though by
watching very closely I might be able to see his spirit soar like a newly
hatched moth out of the withered husk that lay before me.
At last I heard the faint beginning of his final breath. He did not
struggle even in death, so that when it came it was gentle and easy, touched
with contentment like a sigh.
The Reverend William Howard, a Negro chaplain, sat by the bed, an open
Bible resting lightly in the palm of one great hand. He closed it quietly. Then
he bowed his head and whispered, “Into Thy hands, O Merciful Savior, we commend
the soul of Thy servant.”
After a moment he touched my shoulder gently as though he understood the
heaviness in my heart. “Rejoice and be exceeding glad,” he said. Then he turned
and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
When he was done I did the things a nurse must do for a patient after
death. I opened the drawer of the bedside table and began to gather together
all Mr. Ditto’s belongings – a pair of ancient spectacles, hopelessly twisted;
a razor with a rusted blade; a Bible worn from years of handling. And there I
found the nickel that I knew had brought him so much joy. It was the total
treasure of his life, and I held it in my hand for a long time, remembering . .
.
Mr. Ditto had been one of the first patients assigned to me that winter
of 1947 when I took up my duties as a young nurse on the TB ward of the
Veterans Administration Hospital in Louisville, Kentucky. Mr. Ditto was his
real name; he was never known by any other. An American Negro born of slave
parents in New Orleans at the time of the Civil War, he had been orphaned at an
early age and, with the emancipation, had been cast out into the world. Except
for service in the Spanish-American War, he had lived his life from day to day,
doing odd jobs for anyone who would hire him, living alone in a shack provided
by his former owners. Some years ago he had come to Louisville. He had been ill
for a long time, and when he was admitted to the hospital he was suffering from
advanced pelvic tuberculosis. A great abscess had ruptured, leaving a draining
sinus.
The dreadful stench of it rose to meet me as I entered his room that
first day. I wanted to turn and run away, and perhaps I might have done so had
not something in Mr. Ditto’s eyes reached out and held me. “Good morning, Mr.
Ditto,” I said. “Are you ready for the morning’s activities?”
“Ah don’ know what they is, ma’am,” he said. “But if you think Ah need
‘em, Ah’s ready.”
I began with a bath and the changing of the sheets. The tiny body was so
emaciated that it seemed almost weightless as I gently turned him on his side.
His eyes bulged with pain, but he made no sound.
I remember how my nausea rose when I removed the dressing, but a small
voice saved me. “Ah don’ know how you stand it, ma’am! Ah can’t hardly stand it
myself!” And he wrinkled up his face in such a comic grimace that I laughed out
loud. When he heard my laughter, he laughed, too. We looked at each other
helplessly, caught on a wave of preposterous mirth, and suddenly the air seemed
fresher and the wound less offensive. The sight of it never bothered me again.
When I finally drew up the clean white sheet and folded it across his
chest, he said. “Ah’s feelin’ a whole heap better, and that’s the truth.” Then
he reached out one bony hand, weak and trembling, and fumbled in the drawer of
his bedside table. From it he extracted a shiny nickel and held it out to me.
“It ain’t very much for all yo’ goodness,” he said. “But it’s a powerful
cold day, an’ Ah just thought some good hot coffee might give you pleasure.”
The drawer was open, and I could see a number of nickels, perhaps
twenty, scattered among his personal effects. This was all the money he had in
the world. I should have accepted his offering at once. Instead, I reacted in
haste. “Oh no, Mr. Ditto,” I said. “I couldn’t take that! You save it for a
rainy day.”
I saw the light go out of his eyes and all the shining, as a dark shadow
fell across his face. “Ain’t never gonna rain no harder’n now,” he said.
Hearing the dull despair in his voice, I knew instantly what I had done.
I had reduced him to an old, old man with nothing left to give, with nothing
left to accomplish except dying. Quickly I said, “You know, Mr. Ditto, I think
you’re right. I can’t think of anything better than a cup of good hot coffee.”
I took the nickel out of his hand and watched the light come back into his face.
In the days that followed, Mr. Ditto grew steadily weaker. Every morning
when I put him through the same exhausting routine he submitted patiently.
Somehow we always managed a little conversation, a little fun and gentle
laughter, so that I looked forward to the hour spent with him. And every
morning before I left the room his old hand would grope for another nickel and
he would say, “It ain’t very much for all yo’ goodness.”
I watched the little pile of nickels slowly diminishing and prayed that
Mr. Ditto would not outlive his treasure. His strength was now almost gone, but
he never once forgot his gift to me, even when he could no longer lift his hand
without my help.
One day I saw that he was reaching for the very last nickel in the drawer.
I guided his hand to it, fighting back the tears that had sprung to my eyes. I
searched his face for any sign of realization that there were no other nickels,
but he was unaware of it. He held the coin out to me, smiling the same sweet
smile, mumbling the same familiar words of gratitude. Then I knew he was
wrapped in that gentle half-awareness which enfolds the dying. He was conscious
only of the joy of giving, and I knew with sudden gladness that he was past all
keeping of accounts. Silently I put the nickel back in the corner of the
drawer.
He lived for two weeks after that. Every day when I had finished his
morning care and he was lying clean and comfortable in fresh white sheets, he
would murmur over and over again, “You an angel, ma’am, you just a sure ‘nough
angel.” Then I would know that it was time to take his hand in mine and guide
it to the corner of the drawer. Every day he gave me the nickel. And every day
I put it back again.
That last day I sent for Mr. Howard, the chaplain. He came and read
softly as one might read to a child who was falling asleep, his voice moving
smoothly over the lovely verses . . . “And seeing the multitudes, He went up
into a mountain; and when He was set, His disciples came unto Him: And He
opened His mouth, and taught them, saying, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be
comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’”
I thought: Mr. Ditto had been, indeed,
the poorest and meekest of men; he had accepted fearful suffering without
complaint. But now, in the final hour of his life, he could not hear again the
promise of eternal joy. Suddenly rebellion rose in my heart. Mr. Ditto. How
perfectly his name described him, as though, God, having made a world of men,
had paused and then said “Ditto” – and there he was. What purpose had there been in his creation? What possible
meaning to his patient, futile life?
After the chaplain had gone, I stood for a long time with the last
treasured nickel in my hand. Finally I put it with the rest of Mr. Ditto’s
things, tied them all together into a sad little bundle and marked them with
his name. Then I took them to the office and suggested that they be turned over
to Mr. Howard.
Later that afternoon, just before it was time for me to go off duty, Mr.
Howard appeared in the ward. He looked at me and smiled. “It seems that MR.
Ditto left a small estate,” he said “I think he would want you to have it.” He
took the nickel out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand.
This time I accepted it instantly. For, remembering the light in Mr.
Ditto’s eyes, I suddenly knew the meaning of his gift. Over and over I had
received it in grief, thinking it a mark of his poverty. Now for the first time
I saw it as it really was: a shining symbol of some boundless wealth which I
had never dreamed existed. In that one bright moment all sorrow was dispelled,
all pity vanished. My poor little Mr. Ditto had been rich beyond belief. In his
vast estate were all the patience, faith, and love a human heart can hold.
I went to the hospital canteen and bought a cup of coffee. There was a
vacant table by the window, and I sat down. It was almost dark. A tiny evening
star twinkled prematurely in the sky. I lifted the steaming coffee to my lips
and proposed a silent toast: “To Mr. Ditto, who shall inherit the earth.” Then
I drank deeply of the cup.
