Yesterday I was waiting with Bill in the lobby of the St. Joseph Medical Center in Lewiston. At the reception desk was a small woman who looked to be about 60. She had the kind of far off gaze that is not uncommon in psychiatric patients. I saw her leave the desk with a shuffling walk and slowly return with a paper cup presumably full of coffee. She looked sad, despite her pink smock and yellow nametag that proclaimed: "Hi, I'm Nancy."
She sat her coffee down behind the reception desk and wandered out into the lobby where a number of us sat waiting. She approached a greying woman who was reading Better Homes and Gardens and stared at her intently from a distance of no more than two feet. The woman lowered her magazine as if to say Can I help you?
"Are you alright?" Nancy asked with genuine concern.
A look of confusion crossed the face of the grey haired woman.
"I'm fine," she stammered.
"I'm not," Nancy said, looking even more dejected than she had a moment earlier, "I have degenerative dementia."
The grey haired woman stared at Nancy for what seemed liked minutes before she reached out and touched her arm, as if to say: It's alright, you're not alone.
We have spent many hours in hospital waiting rooms and cafeterias over the last few weeks. It is like having a front row seat in an endless parade of suffering. I find myself asking: Why is there so much suffering? What is the meaning of it all? I think that perhaps Nancy knows the answer. It is the suffering that brings us together and allows us to connect.
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