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.
–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.