so much to ask

when i ask you to take off your outer layers and it is just too much to ask.

you just arrived by taxi from Syria, from a hospital there. Your shaking, and you haven't eaten, you feel dizzy and had heart surgery. I am asking with so much kindness what kind of surgery you had. Your daughter is telling me a heart surgery, you are telling me a endoscopy, and someone else is telling me a heart stent.

 I am carefully assessing your flushed face, your shaky hands, your sweating forehead. I am so impacted by the fact that you life is completely in upheaval. I am calmly and very kindly trying to ask what kind of surgery you have had. It is important to know if you had heart surgery in this past week or an endoscopy. Somehow the women all crowded around us think that they know better than you.

 I want an accurate read on your blood pressure, it is important. I am asking you to remove two of the layers you have on. At first you resist the upper layer and tell me that I can just get the blood pressure read over your sleeve. But I calmly and lovingly explain that you just had surgery, have traveled and I really just want to care for you. You grumpily comply and then remove the outer layer.

   But your second layer is just as thick. I try my best, but it soon becomes clear that I need you to remove that layer also. You look me in the eyes and there is such tiredness and frustration. There is disappointment and weariness. You resist and insist that I can obtain the results over your dress.

  I try and comply, and then gently ask again. It is just too much. You say in a a fit of frustration that you are done. You don't want your blood pressure taken,  you don't need my help anyway.



  I am watching and seeing  how every small thing you do is hard. There is no easy breaks. Nothing is coming simply. Nothing effortlessly. Every task, no matter how normal or routine requires a level of will power to grit through. And sometimes you just simply can not will yourself anymore.

 Your friends and daughter convince you to listen to me. I am telling you how hard things are, that you had to have surgery in Syria. That you are far from your home, that your home city is getting bombed right as we speak. That you are out of control of your body and medical situation, but you are far from your children and family and sisters, and doctors you have known.

 At my words you soften. You tear up. I keep affirming how difficult things are. How you are living a story that no one was ever intended to have to live. Your blood pressure comes out normal. I smile brightly and tell you that your blood pressure is great. You flash a smile. It comes and goes so quick, but it came.



 You get up slowly and tell me you have not eaten or seen your family since coming back from Syria. I ask you if I can just pray a blessing over you. As I pray,  you sigh deeply and tears spring up. For one moment your heart that is full of sorrow and pain takes a breath.




  Oh beautiful one, wishing I could give you rest and comfort for more than just a fleeting moment.