The below is entirely based on my interpretation of the detailed events. I make any number of imaginative leaps in guessing the thoughts and fears of those involved. My impression may have been due to a look, a gesture, a touch, and nothing more. So take that for what it’s worth.

The walls of the hospital room had an aged quality as if they had seen much over the years; the despair of loss mingled with the relief at the end of suffering; joy intertwined with the aching memory of what could have happened. All this lent itself to a wizened, ponderous appearance, drab yet cared for. Light struggled into the room, obscured by the rusted bars over the windows and yellowed curtains. The woman in the bed was flanked by a middle-aged woman and man, the daughter and son-in-law. They were huddled over the bed, whispering words of encouragement and comfort. The eye contact, warm and embracing, was broken as we were ushered into the room. The woman, lying on her side in the fetal position, appeared to be in her seventies. Her eyes, and only her eyes, shifted in our direction. The subtle, almost imperceptible movement made it seem as if the eyes alone remained animated, imprisoned by the rigidly contorted body. Any motion beyond the eyes seemed impossible; the body belligerently refusing to cooperate, as if certain of its inevitable conquest over that last glimmer of light and life.

The somberness inside the room was oppressive, even palpable, as it pounded against all those who entered, against every object and in every corner. The woman’s eyes gave voice to this in a way more expressive than anything. Practically immobilized, the woman had no other means of communication. The pain had stripped her of everything, speech, facial movement, hand gestures. She could not make a sound for the wrenching suffering of her crippled shell of a body. Her eyes had become her only means of reaching out to the world. All her pain, terror, and uncertainty resided in those tearful, sad eyes. As we approached the bed, her eyes drew us closer, and closer still. One could imagine the mental energy she was devoting to beckoning us to the side of the bed. The look could not be described as anything but desperate. Desperate for empathy, words of reassurance, a gentle hand, any kind of human interaction. It was as if she felt her connection to others fraying, her grip on life slowly but irrevocably weakening, slipping, her humanity dissolving into an aqueous nothingness. Human contact and compassion were like a soothing balm. Such connections were affirming, a reminder that she was still alive; she was still linked to those around her. Her body, though conspiring against her, had not won. Her body had not yet denuded her of that connectivity, that sense of being with others. She feared the uncertainty of what would follow the loss of that bond – what awaited her beyond the threshold of human relationships, the sense of trust, mutual reliance, fellowship, and faith inherent in those relationships.

I held her hand. It was a hand that had seen much work over the years, the calluses on her palm had yet to smooth over. But it had the softness and fleshy warmth that only the elderly have. She tried to squeeze, to infuse the touch with more life, more vitality, as if seeking, like a frightened child, just a little more assurance. She could not. The strength was gone, perhaps never to return. Yet the touch alone was enough. The indolent fan watched on from above as it stirred little more than the collected dust in the darkened recesses of the room. With those drifting particles of dust went her anxiety, if only for the briefest of time. As she peered into her personal abyss, unknowable and inscrutable, that moment invited a sense of peace. She did not know what awaited her. She did know that there were people there for her.

In that shared community there was an opportunity for acceptance of that uncertainty. Just having someone there to share in the experience, to share in the emotion and angst of the moment, made a difference. It was as if that touching of hands, sympathy, compassion, concern, even though these do not provide answers, are a source of courage and strength; a way of knowing we are not alone.

All I could do was hold her hand and say a prayer with her. She didn’t understand a word, but I firmly believe she could sense the sincerity. I could not help but weep for her, and I do not cry easily. My own powerlessness was overwhelming. Though it was just for a few minutes, the chance to share in her pain and journey made clear our kinship. The willingness to stop, touch her hand, drink in the vulnerability, and have no answers, no solutions, validated her experience. For me, this is the embodiment of communion. She didn’t know who I was or what I was saying. It didn’t matter. All she knew was that she had someone’s hand to hold. And that was enough.