Grace

Visiting a middle-aged woman in emotional distress following her surgery, I hear her tell me she feels “desperately alone.” She says that after years in alcohol recovery, this sense of aloneness “triggered my relapse.” As we go deeper, her eyes squeeze shut then tears spill out. She chokes out,“God. I want to...feel God. But I can't."

We say the Serenity Prayer together. She shares more about God of her understanding and her desire to reconnect. She acknowledges that her primary need right now is "serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”

She bursts into tears. I guide her in breathing in “God” (silently saying it to herself) and breathing out “Serenity.” This is a method called Attuned Breath Centering, which I developed. Her breath eases. I leave and say will visit her the next day.

The next morning, I visit and we say the Serenity Prayer together. Then, unexpectedly, she bursts into tears saying her sense of aloneness is excruciating, and the Attuned Breath Centering difficult to continue. Something sparks in me, remembering how the palliative team approaches pain management. I ask her, “This part of you that thinks she is desperately alone, rate how alone on a scale of 0-10?” She says, “8.” Then I ask her, “Now imagining this part of you that feels God’s presence, how strongly does she feel this on a scale of 0-10?” She replies, “7.” For a moment, I am uncertain what to do. Then, an image comes to me. I ask her to imagine a wire fence with lots of open space between the wires. On one side stands the alone part of her. On one side stands the part who feels God’s presence.

I say, “Now the one who feels presence offers her hand through the fence, palm facing up. She offers it to the one who thinks she is alone. Tell me what you notice. Please refer to each part of you as “she.” Then you can witness all of you.” She nods her head, “ok.” I encourage, “Tell me, what’s happening?” She breathes a few times and replies, “I” then corrects herself, “She accepts the hand. They are holding hands.” I invite her to breathe into this sensation of holding hands.

Then I say, "Now imagine that as these two are holding each other's hand, the one who feels God's presence, holding clippers in her other hand begins to cut through the fence. Take your time and tell me what is happening." She pauses then says, "they are still holding hands." "OK," I say, "now the hole is growing in this fence and now there is just open space between them, joining them. Let's breathe into this sensation of open space."

After a few minutes, I ask her to rate her aloneness. She smiles with wonderment, her body visibly relazed and her breath slow and deep. She says, “Zero.” Next I ask her, “would you like to name the part of you that feels God's presence?” She pauses for a few breaths and then smiling once more looks up and says softly, “Grace.”

I hold out my hand. She meets me halfway. Our hands rest together on the bar at the edge of her hospital bed. We breathe silently, the room brightens and I feel a tingling sensation in my body. As I release my hand, she says with tears in her eyes, "thank you. I never knew..." I smile and nod my head to acknowledge her words. I echo hers, saying softly, "Grace."

You Must Fight

Visiting a man in his early 80’s who is recovering from hip surgery, I ask, “what keeps you going?” He looks me dead in the eye and says with fierce convicton, “You must fight.” I pause as he does. He adds, “even if it hurts.” He continues, “I had surgery yesterday and I am walking today. They don’t want you to be in bed. If you stay in bed you will sink into the bed and never get up.” He pauses again. I meet his gaze.

Then his tone shifts and he says, “I was married 56 years. My wife died three years ago.” His voice cracks. I say, “it hurts?” He nods his head silently. After a long pause, he says, “Preparation."

I give him a quizzical look. He continues, “Did you know that in that one word are contained over one hundred words?” I reply, “no I didn’t.” He says, “You know how I know?” "How?” I reply. He says, “I took out a dictionary. There is no b,c,d. I started with a. Then e, i..." I resist the urge to question the veracity of what he is suggesting and pay attention to the one word he named. I say, “So many words in that one. Just look for the ones that are there.”

His calmly determined gaze is impossible to ignore. He says, “You tell people. Tell them.” I reply, “I will.” He relaxes his gaze and thanks me. I acknowledge this, turn, and head for the open door.

Be Well

Visiting with an elderly, Jewish, female patient; I say to her, "zay gezunt." The words mean "be well," or "may you be well."

She asks, "When I said that to my father, he said, 'zay mir gezunt.' What does that mean?" I reply, "May we be well."

Her eyes fill with tears as she nods her head in recognition. We are both smiling.

Cake Like

Sitting on a tall stool beside the "bar" at Ten Ren Tea, I spot a tall man to my left being served a large, amber-colored bubble-tea. Beside it I see two single-serving mini-cakes, each wrapped beautifully as is typical of the goodies made by this Taiwan-based chain.

I take a sip of an earthy tea named Puer from a tiny papercup, then ask him what he is drinking. He says, "King's Tea." I recognize this blend of green Oolong and ginseng, known to be energizing while soothingly uplifting. I smile saying, "never saw anyone drink that cold." He replies, "actually, it's warm." I reply, "not hot, not cold. Like the weather today." He laughs and says, "yup, I guess so."

Then I say, "have you tried either of those cakes before?" He says, "no, have you?" I reply, "I've tried the smaller cake but not the larger one." Without a moment's hesitation, he picks up the larger "green tea cake," which is shaped like a heart, and places it beside me on the smooth white counter. Taken by surprise, with eyes wide, I say, "Wow, thank you! I didn't mean to..." He interjects, "hey, two cakes is too much for me, too decadent."

I nod my head slowly in a vulnerable "I guess so" sort of gesture, then offer my hand saying, "hey, I'm Judy." He shakes my hand and says, "Kenneth." We each enjoy a few sips of tea. Then he stands. He turns to go then turns back and asks, "hey, what's the other cake like?" I linger for a breath, remembering the taste of its candied kumquat center. Then I reply, "I like it. It's got bite." He smiles with a touch of mischievous recognition, slowly waves goodbye, then turns and heads for the door.

Move It

Passing through the the Peds (pediatrics) hallway at Hospital for Special Surgery, I hear a little boy say to his dad over and over, "move it move it..." Dad's typing into his smartphone. He says nothing.

Recognizing the boy's refrain, I turn to face him and with a big grin say, "move it, move it" as I shift my hips, dancing like the wacky lemur from kid-flick "Madagascar."

The boy smiles and joins in. Now both of us are dancing and going, "move it move it..."


Dad suddenly looks up and boy, he sure is smiling!

Beautiful

With fewer patients in-house today, some of the nurses are chatting, comparing manicure tips. This sparks a warm tingling in my body. I feel my grandmother's hands holding mine.

Years earlier, I am sitting as a little girl beside my maternal grandmother or Bubby, as we call her. Minutes earlier, this woman who speaks six languages puts out two folding metal "tv dinner tray" tables, one for her and one for me. We sit facing a big TV to watch her favorite soap, "As the World Turns."

On each tray are supplies including: a small bowl of green Palmolive (yes, really), a small moist washcloth, nailfile and other tools, and pinkish-creme-colored nailpolish. We sit in silence and do our nails as drama unfolds before us.

The images and sounds on the screen do not distract me. I am focussed on the ordered sequence of activity and captivated by the wonderful colors, textures, and movements. After polishing each nail, I bend my knuckles down then quickly flick the long fingers up and towards the sky. My fingers are dancing.

When I'm done, I stand and walk over to where she is sitting. Bubby holds my hands to see my handiwork. I feel my whole body tingling and a warmth spreading throughout my chest and hands.

Here, for this instant, all drama slips away and the world is preciously beautiful.

Silent Scream

My pager goes off. I call in and get a referral for a pre-surgery visit with a middle-aged woman. She is reported to be screaming in pain at the slightest touch. I'm told that she is severely underweight and her prognosis is serious and complex.

Entering the pre-surgical "holding area," I hear voices of moderate volume all around, which blur into a churning hum. Moving past one bed, I see a curtain, which opens just enough to glimpse a nurse standing several feet in front and to my left. Bedside with the referred patient, the nurse asks about her medical history.

Directly in front of me is an older woman. After introducing myself, she tells me, "I'm her mom" and appears relieved for my presence. Her face, which showed tension as I approached, now eases a bit. Seeing my badge, she says with enthusiasm and surprise, "a new friend of mine has the same name as you." We laugh. I ask her how she met her friend. She tells me they are in an "opera appreciation" class.

She adds, "the popular operas are easy but the other ones, you have to get into the story and the undertone to really appreciate them. It's not easy but it's worth it."

Just then, the nurse walks past me.  I approach the patient's bed and introduce myself. She looks exhausted. Her eyes seem to have sunken into their sockets. She tells me that a few friends have sent her well wishes, yet her tone of voice suggests disappointment and hurt. I respond in a neutral tone, "a few..." and pause. She turns away for an instant then back to face me, and says with palpable, hushed rage, "yes."

We pause, eyes locking. Then she says, "look, I'm in pain. That's it." My eyes widen in recognition. I affirm, "yeah." She slowly nods her head up and down. She says, "I can't talk now." I say, "ok" and stand up. As I turn, her mother is looking towards me with a hollow expression that conveys helplessness, sorrow, and confusion. I meet the mother's gaze and move closer, approaching the edge of the curtain. I turn to face them both and say, "I was just thinking, the thing I love about opera is the passion, how when you listen, it feels like you get to scream."

Both women look at me with dismay, which quickly shifts to curious interest. The mother begins to smile as I continue, "Once I visited a woman in the hospital who was in intense pain. She says to me, 'I just want to scream but how can I, here?" I suggest, "how about a silent scream?" She asks with enthusiasm, 'how?' I say, 'Close your eyes.' She does. 'Now picture where you need to be when you scream.' Without hesitation, she says to me, "I know exactly where. In the middle of the street, tons of traffic. But when I go there, everything stops.' I affirm, "Ok, now slowly open your eyes." She does and looks directly at me."

I pause. Mother and daughter are looking right at me with the same fierce determination as the woman standing in the midst of traffic. I continue, "As she opens her eyes, this is what I do." Without a sound, I close my eyes and tighten every muscle in my face. Then, I open my mouth as wide as possible and my whole face shakes with intense release.

Slowly, I open my eyes. Both women's eyes are open wide and locked on to me. Their mouths are hanging open. I notice the subtle nuances in each woman's quietly fierce gaze. In the bed, I see the patient's head moving up and down with an understated while powerfully enunciated vibrancy. My whole body hears her.

"YES!"

I stand still. After a few silent breaths, the mother says softly, "thank you." I nod to acknowledge this, then turn to go.