His Hand

06/02/2008

It was his left hand that really spoke to me.

When first I saw him he was lying in a shared cot in the ‘very sick baby room’, pale with gummy eyes and cracked dry lips, hardly making a sound under the layers of padded quilts.

Looking under the quilts I saw the thin body of an 8 month old boy, every bone was visible, his skin was like paper, dry and crinkly. As I touched him he turned his head towards me and whimpered, his eyelids parted and I could see his milky blue eyes flickering, blind.

As he settled into our unit the only hope I had was that he would not suffer any longer and would die feeling cared for and touched by kindness.

The Nannies in our Palliative Care room are very special and know how to comfort a child. He does not like to be held, maybe he is in too much discomfort – he simply wants to die.

As I sit on the floor beside him, talking to him and stroking his head, his left hand moves and I take it gently in mine.

His cold fingers curl around mine and we connect.

How painful it is to connect with another’s suffering, to bear that burden with them, to feel helpless to change the course of things past for him, yet a privilege to be able to ease the future.

Feeling inadequate and so sad.

Feeling his hopelessness turn to peacefulness

Wanting, waiting, hearing his breathing like whisps of air, feeling his hold on life embodied in his hand holding mine

Weakening body, watchful carers, waiting with him in his last hours, willing a power greater than ours to take him to freedom.

Let his spirit soar out of this captivity, let it be done, transition over.