I came to your room, 547 bed one. The last few times I have been here I was met with mostly silence parading around as a polite, “leave me alone.” Today is different, you look weak, tired, spent. I say hello with a smile, which I soften a little as I meet your gaze. You return my greeting grasping at a small curve of the lips. My heart is so full for you.
I know you have amazing family support, they have sent flowers, sat with you, and held your hand. I also know thats why my cheerful outreach has been met with resistance. You think you don’t need me. Maybe you don’t.
Today is different. It is Sunday. The floor is quiet and no one is here to refill the water in your withering flowers.
I feel honored when you tell me about your pain, when you sob, “It’s just so hard.” I know your pain. I am here, I feel it with you. Such is the beauty of this work, the great gift of attunement. The tears in your eyes tell me that you feel it too. I ask if we can pray together. You say yes and our hands hold each other while you pray for the pain to stop. My body begins a slow tingle, while I begin to lighten.
We open our eyes and our tears fall. We smile together.