She sat there in her PJ's, legs hanging over the edge of her bed and hands grasping her walker. Her eyes were moist. "The thing is," she said as she looked at me out of the corner of her eye, "even if my family came to visit me today... I wouldn't remember it tomorrow."
Her awareness of her condition caught me off guard.
"Can I ask you a question?" She continued.
"Sure" I said, as I knelt down to catch her eyes.
"Once you get in this place... do you ever get out?"
A deep sadness came over me. Did she mean what I thought she meant? Unsure of what to say, I tried the method of clarification.
"What do you mean by 'get out'?... Of course you can leave, but this is your home now."
"Well, you know..." She said. "Is this the end?" She turned her palms upward in a gesture that signified frustration... emptiness.
I sat down beside her and paused, knowing that all she owned was this moment. In an hour, she would not remember if I took the time to comfort her, but right now, this was it. How could I not join her in this moment, identify with her in her fragile humanity, and wait.
Psalm 103:14-16
"...for He knows how we are formed, He remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more."