Candy As Compassion

Would You Give Candy as Compassion?

What does compassion look like? Sound like? What does compassion look like for the dying?

What Soever You Do to the Least of These…

I visited a person while making my Candidate for the Catholic Permanent Diaconate rounds at a local hospital a while back. The second person I visited was in hospice. They were in their early 40s, lucid, alive, and, yes, nervous. But most noticeably, they would ask every doctor, nurse, and Certified Nursing Assistant that came through the door for the same thing: a bag of the Chewable Sweet Tarts from the candy machine down the hall.

The more I talked with them, the more noticeable their condition became. While telling me about their two beautiful children, the person would fade out for a few seconds, then 30, then a few minutes. Because of time, no extra money, and distance, “the kids” were unable to make the trip to say “goodbye” to their dying parent. The condition was becoming apparent and taking hold. Soon, the person in hospice would fade out but wouldn’t wake again.

In our conversation, they’d told me they had led a rough life. They’d stolen, been hooked on drugs, cheated, lied, and had prominent tattoos of “taking lives.”

I didn’t judge and asked, “So, what would make you happy before you leave this world?”

They smiled and said, “Just one thing, a bag of those Chewable Sweet Tarts.”

I had to chuckle. “What’s so special about a bag of candy?”

The person smiled, a tear leaking from their eye. They said, “I used to take my kids around the hood for Halloween. We had the best time! We’d talk as we walked around. I discovered I had really smart, funny, and well… good kids.” The person sat with the memory for a long while, then said, “After we got home, we’d dump all the candy onto the kitchen table and take a piece, share it, and judge it with a rating, you know, sort of like at the Olympics. ‘This one’s an 8.6, or 9.2, or 4.1!’ We had the best time.”

The person looked at me and said, “Those Chewable Sweet Tarts… well, we never had those. Somehow, having them will bring me back to the one good time—the one good thing I had in my life—my kids.”

I’d been with them for a couple of hours and needed to step out. I made an excuse to go to the restroom and exited, my mind full of everything they told me about their life, kids, and faults.

…You Do to Me.

As I wandered the halls, trying to collect myself, I saw the candy machine where their heart’s desire lay. I checked with a nurse on the patient’s condition, and they said, “Oh! They can have whatever they want. They have no more restrictions anymore. They’re about to…” she tailed off, and I nodded.

I returned to the room and gently laid the bag of Chewable Sweet Tarts on the bed table. The person looked up at me. Big tears came, and they momentarily lost the ability to speak. I came to their bedside, and they clung to me for a solid five minutes—bawling and asking over and over, “Why? Why? Why would you show me any compassion? Why would you do this for me? You don’t even know me or what I’ve done.”

After, they became an eight-year-old child again. All smiles and rapidly flitting from one subject to another, like they had to pack in all their thoughts as quickly as possible or they’d burst. They came to a dead stop mid-sentence after I’d opened the package for them and asked with huge bloodshot eyes, “Would you… would you share these with me?” I smiled at them. “I’d be honored.”

We Shared Candy

The person across from me chewed slowly, silently, smiling the entire time. After the first piece, they sat in an almost prayer-like state—serene, slightly smiling, eyes half closed. They asked again the same questions as when I laid the candy on their table. “Why would you show me any compassion? Why would you do this for me? You don’t even know me or what I’ve done.”

I looked at them. “Because you’re worthy of compassion. We all are.”

I stayed for the time it took them to eat five more pieces; then, I needed to see two more people in two more rooms. But I told them, “I’ll be back to check in before I go.”

They held up a yellow Chewable Sweet Tart to me as if it were a glass of champagne, toasting me. And said, “I never did say this very much when I was…” They began to tear up. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I smiled and said, “It’s only a bag of candy. No problem at all.”

With tears slowing easing down their cheeks, they said, “Thank you for the candy, but mostly thank you for noticing me.”

I’d been gone for 20, 30, 40 minutes before returning to the person’s room. When I entered, the bed was empty. There were no sheets, no blankets, no pillows… just a cold mattress. All the bric-a-brac from their bed table was gone, and the freshly sterilized rolling table was off in a far corner. The only remaining thing was a half-eaten bag of Chewable Sweet Tarts on the windowsill. When a nurse came in, I asked, “What happened to…” I couldn’t get the words out.

She replied, “Oh, they’re gone. That patient passed about 10 minutes after you left.”

The Person

We never know what another person needs. The nurses, doctors, and hospital staff… each and every one had been in that room. They had seen the patient—but missed the person.

Look around you. Who are the persons around you? Not customers, not clients, not patients—persons.

Remember, compassion is a sure sign of that “spark” of humanity. The Spirit of God—

the Holy Spirit—that is alive in us and is helping us see that person crossing our everyday path.