What does presence look like? Better yet, what does presence
sound like?
First and foremost, silence. That means shut up. When I am
sick or grieving, I don't want or need your advice unless I ask for it. Don't
tell me I should go see XYZ doctor just because you or your Aunt Melba did. I
can make my own decisions, thank you very much. But do let me vent sometimes,
without thinking you have to fix it for me. Just be there for me; that is comfort.
The Latin root of comfort means to come along side with strength. The Holy
Spirit is also called the Comforter. Isn't that a beautiful image?
As friends, we don't feel very strong, though, so we try to
overcompensate. Why do we always feel we have to solve someone's problems,
rather than quietly comforting? Bernstein notes how we can comfort others with
our notes and cards. Brooks agrees it is often simple non-verbal expressions
like bringing soup that mean so much. Both emphasize: listen.
When I was in college, one of my best friends was very ill
in the hospital from juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. She nearly died. She was a
baby Christian, and I tried to "be there" for her. Unfortunately,
there were others who told her that her faith was not strong enough or she
wouldn't be sick. Not only is that terrible theology - Job, anyone? - it is
devastating psychology.
Often, what presence boils down to is time. I remember conversation I had recently where I delivered some
devastating news to a patient and her caregiver. It was near the end of a long day,
and it would have been so easy to say some platitudes and "give hope"
when what was really needed was simple truth delivered with compassion and
grace. When the visit was over, the caregiver followed me out into the hall and
said, "I know you are busy..." That's when I stopped in my tracks,
paused, and replied, "You are the most important thing right now."
She asked some particular questions that made me realize we
needed to have a much deeper conversation, and that the "truth" I
delivered needed a little more "presence". So, we went back into the
room and had the unrushed conversation we should have had all along. We talked
much more about prognosis, treatment options, and whether or not to continue
with plans to see another specialist and get more tests done.
Ultimately, I recommended hospice care - end of life care
focused on comfort rather than prolongation of life. I wasn't sure if the
patient would agree. But this lovely woman – who couldn't speak from a prior
stroke, but who could understand fully the intricacies of the conversation –
looked at me and gave me the most peaceful smile I have ever seen, along with
her faltering, "Yes."
At the end of a busy day, that smile meant the world to me.
The gift of presence, returned with a smile.
