Holding tomorrows

She passed by. In the silence of the night, she saw him curled up in bed. The wards were darkened, except for the lights at the nurses' station, but she could just make out the frail white-haired figure lying on his side, with the nasogastric tube carefully manuevred out of the way.

Her breath caught every time she glanced in past the open door of his room. She would stop for awhile, keen eyes observing the old man, hoping that he was sleeping well. Feeling utterly powerless. And when, inevitably, she thought about what brought him there in the first place, and what he'd been through and would go through, she would say a prayer.


Fervent. Desperate. Whispered to the Divine, more earnest than she'd been in a long time. Too long.

Perhaps, that is the point of desperation. That we finally reach the end of ourselves. That we are cornered and we are driven to our knees, and we admit that we mere mortals are only capable of so very little. That our completely frightening helplessness eventually pulls our eyes towards Him who is far from helpless. 

Him who holds the whole world, and at the same time, every single human heart, in His loving hands.  

Him who holds tomorrow. Him who holds us.

"I don't know about tomorrow;
I just live from day to day.
I don't borrow from its sunshine
For its skies may turn to grey.
...
Many things about tomorrow
I don't seem to understand
But I know who holds tomorrow
And I know who holds my hand."

~ 'I Know Who Holds Tomorrow', Ira Stanphill ~ 

watch it :)


 

With all her heart

Nothing could have prepared her for what happened next.

"Operation."

As soon as he said the word, shaking his head, his eyes brimmed over. And as he reached for a tissue from his bedside table, his wrinkled hand trembling as the tears broke free, the young medical student at the foot of his bed realized how unprepared she actually was for a heart-breaking scenario like this. How theory and all the well-practised lessons on comforting patients flew out the window, and all she had left was her heart, and her instinct. 

How difficult it was to choose what to say, and how little there actually was to say.

She was just passing by that cloudy Friday afternoon. Looking for her team, after completing an individual assignment at the clinical school, when she caught familiar sight of him, and decided to step in and say hello. This elderly man, with a shock of white hair and kind kind eyes, had been in hospital from the first day she was posted to the ward. And after six weeks in hospital, the colon surgery was finally decided on. In six days' time.


His wife met her gaze. "He sad," she offered, her Spanish accent unmistakable. "He sad, his operation." The doctor had told them earlier that though necessary, it would not be without risk to his life. Age, concurrent medical conditions and a history of multiple operations did not appear to be working in his favour.


"Mi familia." Another tearful addition, as he wiped his eyes.

The girl, for a moment, was thankful for the Spanish soap operas she loved as a teenager. My family. She felt a hard pang of heartache. What was she to say?


But perhaps, sometimes silence really is golden.
  
In the momentary bouts of silence, she found that sometimes silent acknowledgement speaks greater volumes than all the words in the world. That comfort sometimes comes in the form of just listening and being there, and verbal cushions are secondary. 

That sometimes though it's important to address medical conditions and worries, it's also important to search for the good things--the cheer, the humour, blessings to be thankful for--and gently shift our gaze to them. The patient needs it, the family needs it, and God knows, so does the doctor.

So she did her best. She stayed for awhile. Talked about family. Faith. Thankfulness for previous operations gone well. Life back in their homeland, and life here. They laughed heartily, when they asked her how long more she had left in medical school and she said, "Tres anyos", and they wanted to know where she had learnt their language.

Midway through the conversation, when he closed his eyes and seemed to drift to sleep, his wife turned to the student: "He tired. Last night no sleep." The student took in her tired eyes, and asked her how she was. She nodded, her gracious smile only barely masking weariness and unspeakable sorrow. "I'm okay."

She shifted her gaze to him. "We been married forty-seven years. This July, forty-seven." And as the student watched, he slowly opened his eyes to nod and smile at her. "Yes... forty-seven years." 

In those few seconds, the medical student saw that menacing pain of possible separation, staring at them straight in the face. Yet in the same instant, she saw the love and chemistry between two people, made for each other, who had walked life together faithfully for almost half a century. She felt like all the warmth she felt in her heart was going to make her burst, and if she could do anything at all to make sure they reached at least that fifty-year mark, she would.


She could have stayed longer, but it was time to leave him to some rest. Encouraging him again to stay mobilized and as healthy as possible for the operation, she said goodbye, promising to come back soon. 


And she said a prayer that she meant with all her heart for the man and his wife, as she closed the door softly behind her.

"Many words do not a good prayer make; what counts is the heartfelt desire to commune with God, and the faith to back it up." - Anon

'Just thankful for wut ya have'

"That's life -- ya got' stop lookin' at wut ya don't have, and be thankful for wut ya do have."

He smiled as he said it, shrugging his shoulders.  A burly man of about fifty, with twinkling eyes and a warm sense of humour, he had the demeanour of someone who had probably been a pretty mischievous chap back in his heyday. 

I didn't meet him in hospital. But when people hear you're a student doctor, even those you meet outside have a way of placing a tremendous amount of trust in you. They tell you things -- and what a privilege it is.

When I said I was posted in surgery, a witty reply came, punctuated by a chuckle:

"Oh I've been in surgery too, just on the wrong side of the table."

I had to laugh. But in truth, it was no laughing matter. Having been through a major struggle with a fungal infection of the ear, he had gone under the knife for three mastoidectomies. Ear surgeries, to put it simply, often performed in massive infections of the ear, when medications cease to work.

As one can guess, no bodily organ can remain the same after that many surgeries. He came through without any other complications, but he lost his hearing in one side. Three mastoidectomies were just too much for that left ear. After surgery, diabetes and sleep apnoea flared up, and until today, a few months after his final round of surgery, he still has to cope with balance problems and he hasn't returned to work.

He turned to direct his good ear to me.

"You know, my wife's hearing is going too, in the same left ear."

"So she'd have to stand like -- this?" I turned to face my right ear to his, and realized immediately what a tricky position it was for conversation.

"Yeh," came the drawl with a laugh. "Can you imagine taking a walk together? We keep having to shift places!" Smiling and looking at his wife, in a flowery dress, talking to two ladies some distance off, he pondered for a bit. "But all's good, all's good. I'm just thankful to be here today. You know, I could be so much worse off. Just thankful."

I imagined the couple, probably married for a good twenty to thirty years by now, walking down a street, or in a park. Man and wife. Maybe they used to walk down the same street when the wrinkles and grey hairs were lesser, and the hearing was clearer. Now a little adaptation was required, a little 'dance' -- he shifting to one side to say something into her good ear, and she shifting to reply.

And I don't think either one of them would feel it was any trouble. If I could take a photograph, it'd paint perfectly the phrase: 'Growing Old Together'.

Simply because they loved each other. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health.

And, not to be forgotten surely, in perfect hearing and in inconvenient deafness too.


"Just thankful for wut ya have." :)

"I cannot promise you a life of sunshine;
I cannot promise riches, wealth or gold;
I cannot promise you an easy pathway
That leads away from change or growing old.

But I can promise all my heart's devotion
A smile to chase away your tears of sorrow;
A love that's ever true and ever growing;
A hand to hold in yours through each tomorrow."

- Mark Twain (1853-1910)

Mom, Dad -- this one's for you. :)

* Image taken from http://www.flickr.com/photos/tokaris/207335658/sizes/m/