The Power of Touch

My first patient as a student nurse was an elderly man who I will call Max. Alone in a bed. Isolated. No visitors. Max wouldn’t eat. He laid with his eyes closed. He seemed neither here nor there. My first instinct was to touch his hand and whisper his name. “Max”, I said. He opened his eyes. Touching his hand, I made sure his eyes were close to mine and I smiled at him. Slowly his eyes focused and I saw a light, a connection. I moved my hand to clasp his all the while quietly being. He responded by moving his fingers around mine. It started an amazing journey for me and hopefully a kindness for Max.

As i experienced more and more interactions with my patients, I found the human touch and presence mattered greatly. I felt and feel a presence, a connection through touch. Connection of sharing strength, sorrow and hope. I think back to when I was sick or sad. What made all the difference to me? My mom’s touch on a fevered brow, my dad’s hug. When my mom became more disabled and couldn’t hug so much I remember the caress on my hand or head that made me know she was there. She cared. I was not alone.

My nursing career took me to hospice and working with the dying

The first nurse I met in hospice was caring for my Aunt Kitty. The nurse came into Aunt Kitty’s room, have reclined on the bed near her. She took her hand and said, “what would make you feel better today? What do you want to do?” She was allowing a dying person control and choices. And gently with her hand telling her she would be there.

As I began my work, I would find myself reaching out for a hand or wiping a brow. Quiet words would tell people, “You’re not alone.” I felt as if God was sending some comforting waves through my hands allowing his graces and kindness to be transmitted to the dying. A midwife of souls.

At times there was humor. My one lovely lady was dying of breast cancer. Her chest had a lesion I would treat every day. I guess I’d hum as I did the treatments because one day Mrs. H said, “when I am dying, would you sing the Ave Maria to me as I die?” I looked at her and she was serious. I said, “Mrs. H, the last thing you want to hear as you are dying is ME singing the Ave Maria!” We both laughed. A few days later it was evident she was dying. I felt compelled to try and sing to her. I asked some other nurses, “please find me the words to the Ave Maria!” They brought me the wrong rendition. It was growing close. I took her hand and stroked her hair. I told her it was ok to go, and I hummed the Ave Maria. And I felt the presence of God about. And she peacefully slipped away.

Words matter, touch matters, compassion and presence matter. How we walk each other home matters.