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