I watched her as she softly rubbed her pregnant belly, and followed her gaze to the mother who was holding her infant as close to her as possible given the IV and monitors between them. I imagine she could feel that mother’s pain as she caressed the unborn child within her. She glanced down at her belly once more before continuing her rounds, checking on each child as they were wheeled out of surgery and into the recovery area. More than once she rubbed her belly as though reassuring herself in some way. And as I watched her, I felt her pain.
She approached the father who rocked his baby girl and tried to wrap his strong arms around her, even though both her arms were bound in splints preventing her from giving or receiving a proper hug. She was obviously uncomfortable as she thrashed around, unable to keep still. I watched that daddy with all the patience in the world, hold his little girl, and whisper words to soothe her…words only to be shared by the two of them, words he hoped would comfort her and in turn comfort him too. And as I watched him, I felt his pain.
Just steps from them, I heard a couple simultaneously reciting a list of medications their young daughter was currently taking. I was taken aback by how efficiently they packed her belongings, wiped the drool from her mouth, and inched her wheelchair closer to the hospital bed in preparation for the transfer. I was in awe of how their every movement seemed to be part of a synchronized dance, each anticipating the other’s next move, each understanding their role. I watched them carry their daughter into her wheelchair, the mom brushing back a stray lock of hair off her daughter’s face, the dad gently cradling her like he must have when she was an infant even though her legs now draped and dangled over his arms. I realized their fluid movements must come from years of practice. And as I watched them, I felt their pain.
I returned my attention to the nurse as she led us to the waiting area where we would join the rest of the family members waiting for their loved ones to come out of surgery. It brought me back to all the moments in emergency rooms, hospitals, and doctor’s offices I had witnessed in the last two weeks – when I felt my own son’s pain as he doubled over, my daughter’s pain as she saw her brother in the hospital for the first time and tears streamed down her face, my husband’s pain as he stole worried glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I saw complete strangers in pain, worried for their loved ones, faraway looks in their eyes as their current experiences caused them to relive another pain from another time, another place.
As I paced the waiting room, I watched the nurse deep in conversation with a dad and his teenage daughter who rubbed her bandaged arm to the same slow rhythm the nurse rubbed her pregnant belly. As I watched the fearful look in the young girl’s eyes, I felt her pain. It was then I glanced at another woman sitting off to the side by herself, and noticed she couldn’t take her eyes off the nurse’s hand as it moved up and down time and again, covering the span of her belly with soft, soothing strokes. Pain filled her eyes as her own hand mimicked the nurse’s movements. Yet, when I took a closer look at her hands I saw them caressing a very flat stomach, her teary gaze locked on the nurse’s hands as her own kept up the same rhythm. And as I watched her, I felt her pain.
As we cross paths with complete strangers, we must remember that our pain may seem greater because it is our own, but we truly have no idea where someone else’s pain stems from. Show compassion. Be slow to judge, but be quick to love.
I could relate to this, since my younger daughter was born extremely early and was in hospital for most of her first 4 months of life. She got home shortly before her due date and then a bout of bronchiolitis had her back on a ventilator. When she was recovering from that, I’d see much older kids on breathing apparatus and wonder if that was what was also in store for us. It seemed so tough for them, and for her as a tiny baby. But sometimes I think it bothered her less than it did me!
[…] “This was the kind of excellent writing that produces a raspy sob that catches in your throat so unexpectedly! An awesome reminder about perspective and pain.” […]
[…] I watched her as she softly rubbed her pregnant belly, and followed her gaze to the mother who was holding her infant as close to her as possible given the IV and monitors between them. […]
Thank you for including my piece!
I hope your son is Ok. And this was amazing as ever. Love your work
He’s doing much better. Thank you!
Really beautifully written. Thank you for that last pain…and that last thought.
Thank you.
A lovely reminder.
Thank you. You just never know the path some folks have had to travel.
it was beautiful and so true
Thank you Terry.
So beautiful, and so very true!
Sending positive thoughts for you and yours.
Thank you. The worst is over. We flew back to PR yesterday and he’s doing better each day.
I’m so glad!
Such a great reminder, especially today. Thanks for hooking up to the Hump Day Hook Up
Thank you. I had missed a couple of hookups, but glad to participate again!
Beautiful…we do need to remember to look outside of our own thoughts and even pain and recognize that others are going through things too. We are here to look out for each other in the midst of sadness as well as joy…
It’s so easy to get caught up in our own situation. Though understandable, we need to be better about taking a moment to consider what others are going through too or what they have gone through. Our experiences shape us…we must keep that in mind. Thank you for taking the time to read my thoughts.
Just read your facebook updates! Praying for Evan!!!!
xoxo
Thank you my friend!
This was the kind of excellent writing that produces a raspy sob that catches in your throat so unexpectedly! An awesome reminder about perspective and pain. I am wondering if I missed something or you just decided to write about this but I am praying for you if this was a recent observation! Being in the waiting room with your son!
Tight hugs!
Diane
Thank you. It was a scary adventure for us, but nothing compared to what some of those families I witnessed deal with on a daily basis.
I hope you and your family are doing well. I’m sorry for your pain, and the others. And I love the ending “Be slow to judge, but be quick to love.” It’s what we should do. Blessings to you all Little Miss Wordy.
Thank you. We flew back home yesterday and he is doing much better. Poor little guy went in to have his non-functioning gallbladder removed (the source of the pain) and ended up have his appendix removed too!
! Poor little fella. I hope he got a GOOD surprise out of that…like ice cream.
Incredibly well written. I love the fluid movement of this piece. Great work!
Thank you. It was a sad observation, but it was also a testament of love, patience, compassion and perserverance among those I watched.
Beautifully written. I have been in a hospital waiting room with my own son far too many times and what you say really rings true. X
Thank you. My heart goes out to you. This was my first real experience with one of my children being sick enough to need surgery. I felt for those parents who obviously had been doing this for some time. Thanks for stopping by and leaving a comment.