Eyes
remain the window to the soul.
I saw a patient this morning who has been in a
hospital bed for weeks. She can move her arms and legs when asked, but
only enough to beat gravity for a number of seconds. When not asleep or
watching the television, with a volume that she can’t adjust, and that
is set too low because the unit staff would likely complain about the
noise, she watches, her eyes the only steadfast window to her soul.
At earlier than five in the morning, I visited
with her, and we connected. I held her hand when I spoke with her, and
she squeezed my hand in return, repeatedly, a pulse of life that
communicated more than words could. Her face didn’t convey emotion well,
but her lips and tongue continued to try to say the words that I tried
to understand. There was an “L”, and there were two or three syllables.
There wasn’t pain, and there wasn’t anything we could understand
together using a high-tech clipboard that had push-button devices. Her
motor skills were too unsteady to make the board useful.
I looked into her eyes, and we held gaze. I felt
that the communication between pupils was stronger than the possibility
of lip-reading, and I nearly gave up on the lip-reading each time I
realized that I was steering away from the window to her soul. We caught
eyes again, and I thought about her husband, who had been there each
time before I met this woman. I wondered in that subconscious moment of
instant thought, if he would be able to understand her better than I
was. I wished he were there.
I tried and I tried, breaking down her attempted
utterances into words, syllables, letters, but for naught. I couldn’t
break through. At one point her unsteady hand with fingers extended,
became more deliberate. Her index finger reached for my badge, and she
traced my picture, and then my status as a medical student, and finally,
her finger traced my name. There was something there in what she was
trying to communicate. She touched my shoulder, and at that time, I had
a hand resting on her left shoulder, looking in her eyes, bouncing
involuntarily left right, left right, right left, and back to mouth,
searching for communication.
I told her I knew she was frustrated with trying
to communicate. I told her to be strong. I told her she was looking
better. I tried, and despite the clinical medical failure of documented
communication, I felt we connected. I swabbed her mouth with a minty
rinse, and I broke the connection, promising to return later.
* *
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* * *
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*
Epilogue
And now, she can speak. I will never forget walking
by her room, waving, and being surprised by her voice, saying, in an
audible voice, hello.
She didn't remember the morning when I had tried to
communicate with her. She was trying to recall the voiceless
conversations she had missed with her brother, her husband, and other
visitors. But I've stopped by on random occasions, and hearing her voice
reminds me of the distant whisper of hope...
No matter how faint it may seem in an instant, hear
it. The voice is there, and you may hear it again.
