Holy Week

Holy Week © 2026 Craig Dahlberg

Mid-afternoon, as I churned through long-ignored paperwork at my desk, my friend called, distressed. A mutual acquaintance was in despair—badly in need of an enema. She couldn’t fit him and his wheelchair into her small sedan.

I stared at the wall, searching for a viable excuse. None came. It was Holy Week. Perhaps this was my appointed cross.

This acquaintance lives among hoarded boxes that choke the hallways and lean against rickety doors. An unhousebroken dog roams freely. Doors are left ajar, inviting rats to compete with opossums and squirrels for dominion. The place is less a home than a field guide to neglect.

Over the months, I’ve brought warm meals. I can change his soiled underclothing in my sleep. I’ve supplied a small fortune in Depends. His love language is a constant rant—against faulty shower suction grips, politicians, or the slow avalanche of unopened bills collapsing to the floor.

Now he was fully constipated and in distress.

My friend pressed: “What about urgent care? And his…enema?”

I dismantled his wheelchair, loaded it into the back of my 4Runner, and maneuvered him into the passenger seat. As he settled in, his pants released a telltale odor.

We sped to urgent care.

“We can’t give enemas here,” they said. “So sorry.”

“But—uhhh! NOW I’ve gotta GO!” he shouted.

“Just hold it! Hold it!” I said, though I had no plan.

Then, struck by a kind of desperate clarity, I wheeled him into the unisex bathroom. I helped him strip him down and got him onto the toilet, his pants already soiled. He erupted—groans, shouts, a torrent of unprintable language. Then, together, we tended to the business that we all typically attend to in privacy. We made do with whatever bathroom toilet paper products we could find.

Thirty minutes passed. But now, nothing. No relief. Only exhaustion—and now nakedness, with no clean clothes.

At my pleading, a nurse produced a paper, underwear-like garment. I eased it under him and, lacking anything better, wrapped my Patagonia jacket around his waist—a makeshift dignity. My neighbor tactfully averted her eyes as we exited the toilet.

Getting him back into the car was…complicated. The improvised garment failed quickly. I transferred both it and him in one awkward, careful motion, holding everything together as best I could.

We drove away.

“Oh, no! Now I can’t hold it!” he cried.

“Just do it,” I ordered.

So he did.

Back at his house, I executed a kind of speed-maneuver—wheelchair, door, bathroom, shower. I got him seated under the spray and stepped back.

When he finished, I helped him into bed, then snugged his adult underwear around him with a back-and-forth rolling motion.

I thought we were done.

But once lying down, he asked me, “I can’t reach my feet. Could you wipe them for me?”

What a beginning to Holy Week.

“Jesus did it,” I reminded him, “and I’m glad to do it for you. And I don’t know if it’s required, but I’ll get your ankles and calves, too.”

Holy Week—could I hear a Voice over my shoulder?

Attaboy.

Welcome to Holy Week.

It’s going to be a good one.