A visitor

Two weeks ago, a perfectly healthy woman in her 50's was in a car accident.  The "only" injury was to her head.  Unfortunately, she has never regained consciousness.  She has not once responded to her name, the voices of loved ones, a touch, or painful stimulus.  A ventilator is breathing for her.  She is getting her nutrition through a tube.  As I was moving her joints and positioning her, I felt nothing.  Her vital signs did not change as I was moving her.  Her family is not ready to see her go.

As I was moving her, her daughter and a co-worker of hers came to her side.  Her daughter spoke to her, told her to open her eyes, told her to move, positioned her in bed, repositioned her in bed, asked for her nurse, asked about her care, asked for her co-worker to talk to her mother.  I could feel the pain of the daughter.  How much she wants her mom to get better.  I've felt it before from other family members, for other patients.  It makes me want to cry.  Not for the patient, but for the family that is here on earth.

Today was different in a sense.  It was the co-worker.  A co-worker that cared enough that she was visiting her in ICU.  And it was obviously not her first visit.  That alone would be enough.  The act of visiting.

But there was more.  The words that were spoken.  There were no words of wishes that she would get better.  Or commands to move that would not be responded to.  But simple observations of what was happening that the patient would have reacted to.  Things at work.  Happenings of friends and family.  Life.

When the daughter would ask "Did you see that?", then look at the co-worker and I.  I would respond with a simple "no", wishing I could answer yes but I never saw anything.  It would have been easier for the co-worker to say "yes" or "I wasn't looking" or any other number of lines that I have heard others give when questioned if they saw a perceived active movement.   But the co-worker each time responded "no".  The truth is hard to speak. 

Even above this, was the visitor's touch.  She touched this woman with a kindness, a tenderness.  A patience and well practiced hand that had obviously care for others.  There was no hesitation or fear in her touch.  A simple act of love and peace.  So many times, touching someone in a similar condition is met with fear, a fear that you can feel in the air.  That you can see with the hesitation in the moments, the uncoordination with the touch. 

It was a quite peace that surrounded the visitor. 

I wanted to thank her for visiting.  For the patient.  For being with the daughter.  For her kindness and love.  For her quiet honesty, peace, and strength.

Yet, I couldn't.  As it was time for me to move on.  And she was in the middle of a conversation with her daughter.  A conversation that didn't seem right to interrupt.  And I didn't know what I really wanted to say other than thank you. 

Thank you.