January 18, 2007
today i sat in a little room that had pale curtains for walls. my chair was hard. but not as hard as what i had to say.
language is something that comes naturally to most of us. we are competently unconscious of the complexities for forming a word. aphasia explains a condition where people's words are trapped within their neurons packaged within the brain; when they attempt to verbalize their thoughts, only muffled baby-like sounds are heard.
somehow, although typically not contagious, i contracted this disease. i found myself, sitting on the hard chair, knowing what i had to say, but physically unable to form the words.
the potential recepient was 35. from her charts all we knew was she had been diagnosed with ALS, a neurogenerative disease that would slowly impair her motor functioning: in two years her lungs would quit, and she would suffocate.
her clammy hand quivered as it raised to meet mine. her dark, hollow eyes slowly lifted to meet mine. mine stalled; hers remained patient, but waited. i didn't want to connect. i knew exactly what they wanted from me, and it was something i couldn't offer.
she, a tiny, quiet mother of three young boys, dying. me? i was god. her lips trembled as she softly reiterated the question her eyes had already asked. can you help me?
my chair was hard. but not as hard as what i had to say...
i looked at her sons. they were no longer 4,5, and 9. i saw them and they were adults. they were telling the story of how their mother died when they were young. they were telling the story of how much she loved them, how much they missed her. and their eyes would only glaze over as they had been exhausted of tears. when i turned to look again, they were 4,5, and 9, pushing mom around in the wheelchair, hoping to be the next in line for a ride. i wanted to tell them to hold on for dear life.
i know their future. the fear in her eyes tells me she knows her future. as I slowly let go of her hand, it loitered for a moment as though dangling between the grasps of life and death. again, she asked, with a soft desperation only heard in a prayer, can you help me? i was life to her. i was god. and to me she prayed.
it was hard to say. and in fact, i couldn't. i didn't.
it was too hard.
i know i get too emotionally wrapped up. that i see too much. feel too much. i know it'll eventually subside. but it's what i don't know that worry's me. it's the damn i don't knows.