da

I was 40 minutes into my Sunday on-call when I was paged to the Chest Pain consult room.  By now I know just what that means.  Sure enough, once inside I found a man, head in hands, trying to absorb the unexpected death of his mother.  


I just wanted to be a comforting presence and support.  But it was more challenging than that.  


First of all there was a bit of a language barrier. Peter introduced himself, then struggled to find English words to describe the morning's events. Later Peter called his 7 brothers and sisters and I sat quietly beside him and enjoyed a river of beautiful Ukrainian words.  The only one I recognized was Da.


Then there was the matter of grieving.  Though Peter was weeping when I walked in, he immediately stopped. When I asked, he told me he was fine.  When I told him he didn't have to be fine, he told me "This is time will be strong." And he was strong as we went to see his mother, but when I stepped out of the room to talk to the nurse, he broke down.  As much as I wanted to help, I realized that my presence halted his grieving.  So I stood outside the room, willing him strength as he sobbed alone.


I did get to help later when Peter's last sibling in Russia needed documentation for the embassy to come to the funeral.  I wrote a letter to accompany the doctor's form and waited with him as they got sent.  When every thing was done, I put my hand on his shoulder and told him how sorry I was.  He shook my hand and said "Thanks to come here with me."


I'm reminded again that grief and compassion are universal languages.  Both speak louder than gender, age, culture and tradition.


Я так сожалею о вашей боли. Мое сердце болит для Вас.


Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.  2 Corinthians 1:3 and 4