I see you from my perch. I see you at her bedside. Your bride, since 1958 you told me with tears welling in your eyes.
I’m watching her, but I’m also watching you. I see the way you stare at the wall, burning a hole through the neutral-colored wall paper, not looking at the wall but through it as your mind plays a picture show of the past 55 years.
You said she used to be a gymnast and loved to race horses.
Is that what she’s doing right now in your thoughts, or perhaps memories of running hand in hand and stolen kisses behind her Daddy’s barn, instead of laying lifeless in a sick bed?
I want to get up, run to your side and embrace you. I want to have the words to say, the magical, poetic prose to soothe your pain. If I thought I could manage it I would weave you a beautiful tapestry of healing sympathies to cover your weary shoulders like a salve, or a warm blanket on a bitterly cold day. My reassurances could be the fire by which you thawed your waning hope.
But I stay just outside the room for now, knowing the inadequacy of my words. They cannot compete with the memories that play across your tired brain.
I wish I could make it better. If I could, I would. If I only knew the right words…
But I don’t. So I simply watch you, while I’m watching her for you. And when you look up at me I smile. You try really hard to smile back at me, and I love you for that, but I can see the pain even in your upturned lips.
I wish I could give your angry son the answers he requires. I try. I slowly, patiently answer each one as it comes, but his ears don’t hear what I say.
I wish I could give the answers he wants to hear. If I could, I would. But I don’t have the right answers, only the hard ones.
I wish I could somehow make the doctor’s words be what you want them to be. I watch as you listen, shaking your head in understanding even as I see your eyes twitching and mind on overdrive from all the foreign medical terms, vague prognoses, and conflicting information from one professional’s opinion to that of another.
I try my best at this, to explain things for you in a way you will really and truly understand, to help you connect the dots between one specialist’s words to that of the other. But I still cannot make the news be good.
If I could, I would. But I cannot.
I know you don’t expect horse racing and somersaults in this season and time, but the stolen kisses would be so sweet.
I wish I could give you back time, a lifetime of precious memories, moonlit dances, the look of pride when that first baby made it’s very first cry, the anniversary cruise to Cabo, and the taste of her hot apple pie on your tongue.
I wish I could give you these and so much more.
If I could, I would. But I can’t.
I can give you my shoulder to finally let loose your torrent of hot tears.
I can give you my hand, to hold it as we pray together for her.
I can give you honesty when you really want it.
I can give you hope when yours is failing. I will never give you a false hope of recovery, but I will never give up hope as long as hope is there.
I can give you my heartfelt intercession. I will pray for her, for you, for your family, and for all of us on this end doing what we can.
I will also pray for God’s will. I hope you can understand that.
I will not let her hurt. I know that’s important to you, and it’s important to me.
If I can, I will.
But sometimes I won’t because sometimes I can’t.
I watch you slowly shuffle down the hall, slumping to your right as you lean upon your cane, as if it could offer some sort of supernatural strength as you trudge along.
Your head is down and your shoulders slumped. I wish at this moment that I could pick you up and carry you.
If I could, I would. But I can’t.
I can only hope, I can only pray that I did something, something to lighten your load, something to ease your hurt.
I wish this all, but sometimes I can’t, sometimes I don’t.
But I can promise you this; I will never stop trying.
Rose H. RN says
Briane, I see and feel this everyday working in ICU and often times I wish, I have a magic wand
You are my inner voice……..thank you!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you for reading and commenting.
Ruthie Young says
priceless.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you
Paula graves says
Beautiful. I enjoy reading each one you produce. This is a Gift
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so very much!
Denise McLaughlan says
Ohhhh gosh what can I say as a critical care nurse I have held the hand of many a relative and patient but never been able to put into words the emotions I’ve often felt, the prayers I’ve silently said. Thank you for your fabulous understanding I personally see so much of myself in so much of your sharing. You have a wonderful talent.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much for the compliment.