An Unlikely Source of Comfort

At one particularly low point last December, I stood outside my dad’s room in the rehab hospital and stifled back tears. An aide named Angie with a beautiful heart and lovely accent put her arms around my shoulders, prayed for me and told me I had to be strong.

At that point, I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t particularly want to be strong.

But she was right. I did have to be strong. And her words of prayer and encouragement strengthened me.

I’ve interacted with what seems like dozens of medical professionals in the last couple of months. In the hospital, physicians’ offices and my parents’ nursing home, I’ve talked to doctors, nurses, aides, techs, therapists, nurse managers, nurse practitioners, physician’s assistants and social workers.

I don’t remember all these people or most of what they told me. But the ones I do remember have a few things in common, mostly in how they communicate.

For one, they listen. I can see it in their eyes and their body language. They’re not thinking about the next patient they need to see or what they’re going to have for lunch. They’re focused on the person right in front of them.

They don’t offer many words that are supposed to make anyone feel better.

Instead, they say, “It’s a lot, what you’re going through.”

They say, “I don’t know why that’s happening.”

They say, “It’s hard.”

And though it might seem counterintuitive, I am comforted more by these stark words than I am by almost anything else anyone could say to me.

I don’t want false hope; I’m trying to face reality. I need them to help me do that.

And they do.

They’re objective, but they’re not detached.

Yes, they’ve seen countless patients over the years (although my dad, it seems, is a particularly puzzling and complex case). But they’re still human. They still care.

They see my family members trying to make sense of what is happening because they are trying to make sense of it too. They’re attempting to solve my dad’s medical problems, while we’re dealing more on an emotional and spiritual level. But however you look at it, it’s not a situation where you can plug in numbers for X and Y and get the correct answer.

It’s complicated. It’s all happened so fast. It changes daily.

It’s hard to process all this myself, much less think about how to explain it to people who haven’t seen my dad for a few months. That’s why the hard, blunt truth—presented by compassionate people who understand how to communicate—is most comforting.

I share all this for a few reasons. First, I want to acknowledge the countless moms and dads, husbands and wives, and sons and daughters around the world who have been in similar positions—many for a lot longer and under much graver circumstances.

It’s difficult enough to watch an aging parent struggle; I can only imagine how hard it would be if it were my child or spouse in that hospital bed instead. (If that’s you today, I’m so sorry.)

Also, I am extremely grateful for people in caring professions who care well. Yes, I would much rather have a skilled surgeon with a gruff bedside manner than a less-talented one who makes me feel good with his words. But when a nurse, aide, doctor or therapist combines compassion with competence, it’s a gift. And the difference it can make in the lives of their patients (as well as for the people who love them) is huge.

Finally, my conversations with empathetic medical professionals have prompted me to examine the way I interact with hurting people.

I have a long way to go, but I’m slowly learning that listening with the goal of understanding, not fixing, should always be my first response. And that hard truths spoken with compassion are often more comforting than trite words designed to make people feel better.

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Have you ever been the recipient of encouragement like this? If so, please share your experience in the comments.

♥ Lois

P.S. I’m linking up this week with #TellHisStory, Let’s Have Coffee, Faith on Fire, Faith ‘n Friends and Grace & Truth.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash