All we can say at the end.
“She rubs my knuckles and down each finger with even sweeps of her thumb, her other hand bent clawlike beside her face.”
The old woman lies in the fetal position in her hospital bed, breathing the slow, rhythmic sighs of death. She moans, “Oh Lord, oh Lord, no.” I sit by her side. I’m the unit’s chaplain.
She takes my hand with her eyes closed and rubs my knuckles and down each finger with even sweeps of her thumb, her other hand bent clawlike beside her face. She rubs farther down my wrist, and when she comes to my bracelets she stops, opens her eyes, smiles, showing the gaps between her teeth. I smile back. She closes her eyes and sighs.
I rub her hand and remember holding my father’s before he died, mourning the impossible pinks of his nails and the whites of the crescents, the graceful taper of his long fingers.
The woman rubs her stomach and cries.
“You’re in pain,” I say. She opens her eyes to confirm. “I’ll get the nurse,” I say. In the hall the nurse tells me the patient refuses pain medication. We return together.
I sit by the bed and lean toward the woman. “The pills will help the pain,” I say.
The woman lifts her head, takes them with water, and closes her eyes again. After the nurse leaves I hold the woman’s hand until she draws away, opens her eyes, nods her thanks.
I touch her hand again, tears pooling, and walk past bleating phones, the blur of screens, the gurneys being pushed to write my report at the nurse’s station. I sit, wordless. The chaplain’s simple assessment form stares back at me. How can I describe her mix of pain and gratitude? The dinner cart lurches, the scent of chicken drifts, lingers. I check conflicting answers and bow my head. A monitor beeps, puncturing time.
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Susan Moldaw is a chaplain and gerontologist. Her work has appeared in bioStories, Brain, Child Magazine, Lilith, Narrative, Ruminate, and others.
