An anecdote about saying nothing
To this day, I have never forgotten that image in my mind: the silhouette of a frail, old woman, alone, decrepitly walking down a corridor to the elevator door.
Several years ago, as a student nurse, I faced a profound moment that has lingered in my memory. A man in his forties, ravaged by an accident stemming from intoxication, lay dying in my arms. Throughout the resuscitation attempts, my gaze was locked onto his wife’s face, etched with anxiety and fear.
Their tattered clothing and gaunt frames spoke volumes of their life’s hardships. The crowded emergency room of the public hospital was a last resort for those like them, where the overworked staff operated on the harsh principle of triage: prioritize the likelihood of survival.
The wife, a silent sentinel by my side, only left when I sent her on errands for medication. Our communication was sparse; words seemed inadequate in the shadow of the inevitable. How could I possibly prepare her for the imminent reshaping of her entire existence?
Silence was my refuge. I conveyed only the necessary medical instructions, to which she complied, a desperate attempt to cling to the fading life of her partner.
Despite our efforts, her husband passed away. The doctor’s directive was cold but necessary: to escort the wife and her husband’s body to the morgue. As the elevator descended, her stifled tears finally broke free.
In her sorrow, I also sensed a profound sense of helplessness and an unspoken rage fueled by the inequity of their circumstances.
I yearned to offer solace, yet words escaped me. Her vibrant husband, who just hours before was the life of a karaoke party, was now reduced to stillness.
So, in the chilling silence of the morgue, as the woman gazed upon her husband’s body with a numb detachment, I offered the only thing I felt I could — a moment of quiet.
It was after this, in the starkness of the morgue, I spoke the procedural words about final payments, feeling their insufficiency.
“Ma’am, tara na po. May kailangan pa po kayong bayaran sa cashier” (“Ma’am, let’s go. You still need to pay some bills at the cashier”) were my last words to her.
The enduring memory of her solitary figure, navigating the desolate corridor towards the cashier, remains indelible.
With reflection, I recognize the missed opportunities for compassion beyond the clinical. I wish I had vocalized the silent prayers I whispered during those final efforts, shared the burden of her grief, and affirmed that her tears were justified.
But I remained silent, leaving that woman to face her loss in solitude, an image that will forever haunt me.
