When Words Aren't Enough

As I sit in the pediatric trauma room that is stocked to treat the most acute of patients, the room that not long ago was hectic and stressful with physicians, nurses, techs, respiratory therapists, and family members, there are now just two chairs next to the bed filled by myself and the mother holding her baby that did not survive. As the mother lets out intervals of terrorized screams and tears, I put my arm around her shoulder fighting back my own tears as she places her head on my shoulder. What do I say? What do I do?  I rewind through my education history in my bachelor’s and master’s social work programs, every personal experience that may have prepared me for this moment, and contemplate just saying something to fill space. Nothing. Nothing in my entire life or education has instructed me as to what to do or say in these instances. There is absolutely nothing that has prepared me for this moment.

There are no words.

It is this moment I close my eyes and take my mind to another place. I pray. I pray for the presence of God, I pray for peace. I cannot allow myself to simply breakdown in this moment; I am her only support right now. She has no family here.

I recall having discussions in my classes and even in my personal life about practicing silence. It can be a very awkward tool to use in therapy. It exposes a person’s uncomfortability in situations. But it is an effective tool because it forces a person to learn to be at ease and to even guide a conversation in their own terms. Almost all therapists and social workers use silence, or at least know about it, as a conversation technique. I have found that I use silence more frequently not necessarily as a technique, but because I find myself in situations working in the hospital where there will never be adequate words to say. And that’s perfectly okay.

Our culture is what sociologists would call a “verbal” culture, meaning we communicate mostly by words. Okay, duh. But this isn’t how all parts of the world function. East Africa, for example, is considered a “nonverbal” culture. This doesn’t mean they don’t speak, it just means that a lot of their communication is performed without words. Things like body language, innuendos, and intuitions. Although neither is right or wrong, I do challenge our culture in its inability to be comfortable with silence. We have learned to substitute our presence with our words. Instead of simply “being”, we over analyze and rely on our education to tell us what we should say in certain situations. But what do you do when words aren’t enough? What do you say to the mother who just found out her child has died? What do you say as you pick up the father on the floor who just lost his wife? What do you say to the father who hugs you crying after he just said “goodbye” to his daughter when the physicians ended life support? What do you say to the inconsolable woman who was just informed that her brother did not survive the accident? What do you say to the family whose daughter was just diagnosed with terminal cancer?

Nothing prepares anyone for those moments.

There are no words.

Let me tell you something I’ve learned. Because there is something. It’s called presence. It’s really simple and astonishingly requires no formal education. It’s this idea of simply “being”. When there are no words or words aren’t enough, we merely offer our presence, our humanness.

I was introduced to this idea in Uganda where I spent 4 months living in a rural village with Compassion International. One reason I became especially good at this was because wasn’t fluent in the language, but also because presence is practiced in all areas of Ugandan life.

 “For we ourselves know what it means, as a stranger passes us on the pavement, to catch a fleeting, spontaneous smile and to know we are recognized not by name but simply for our humanity. For a moment our presence to one another, eye to eye and face to face, dispels the isolation and lifts our hearts.”

 –John Taylor

When I reflect on despairing times in my life, I don’t remember words anyone said to me, I just remember how they were there. How they showed up. I believe this not only to be the only thing we can offer people sometimes, but it is the best thing we can offer people. Because regardless of their gender, race, socioeconomic status, criminal history, age, or family background, everyone is are of other people’s presence. There is no level of stratification that qualifies someone for support in trying times other than their humanness. It may for the person just coming out of prison to get a job or the migrant family looking for a raise at work, but all that stuff doesn’t matter when it comes to grief.

As a leave my hospital shifts as an emergency room social worker, I often bow my head silently in prayer for the families I interacted with and had the honor of walking with that evening. It is an honor to serve and be a part of such desolate times in a person’s life knowing that the most powerful thing I can offer is my presence. And maybe someday God will give me words to say in those moments, but there is a reason God gave himself the name “Emmanuel”, which means “God with us.”

There are times in life, more often than not, that words just aren't enough. In those moments we must offer our heart and our humanness, give our presence.