Dear Dignity

Dear Dignity, I'm one of those people who has never seen a dead body unless it was at an open-casket funeral. My kind of distance lets me believe death is something of an ephemeral position. And until I met Katie Gage, I didn't know what happens when someone takes their last breath. Katie is an ICU nurse in New Orleans. During the height of the pandemic, she and thousands like her became the last human presence many people would ever experience. Not because families didn't care. Because they weren't allowed to be there. That virus moved faster than our rituals. Faster than our ability to say goodbye. While the rest of us debated six-feet rules, stats on our screens, and whether the local Starbucks was open that day, Katie was in the ICU saving lives and holding someone during their last breath. Because families couldn't go inside, Katie developed her own ritual to let someone go. "I always make sure the patient looks their best for their transition," she says. "I wash their faces. I'll put chapstick on their lips. I change their gown. And I do it because it shouldn't matter whether there's family there or not. They're human beings, and they deserve to be taken care of." Dear reader, do you think much about your demise? I spend hours per week. Not the very end, but more on this: when I look back, will I be happy with my life? I hadn't thought much about the physical setting. I hope it's surrounded by family and friends and a whole lot of love. And if it's not, I hope I have a nurse like Katie to wash my face. Write your future, Robert X. Fogarty PS: We did this shoot during the pandemic when it was all very fresh and nurses were tired and protocols were strict. I'd interviewed a dozen nurses by the time I met Katie. And I started to cry. Maybe out of exhaustion, maybe out of overwhelm. The protocols were strict, but in that moment, Katie said, "It's ok, I'm giving you a hug." I hadn't had a hug from a stranger since the world turned. There is nothing like human connection.