Ms. V

She sat, eyes red, clearly agitated, grasping his hand for dear life. He was missing his customary NAVY baseball cap and had the look of sleep in his eyes from he pre-lunch nap.

Since she is my patient, I address her; "How are you today Ms. V?" I asked, knowing instinctively that the answer wouldn't be positive .

Her eyes teared up as she explained why everything was wrong. Most of it made no sense, but that is what her disease has done to her. The problem seemed to be centered around the man whose hand she is desperately clinging. "They want to take my son away," then the words "they won't let me leave here."

I wonder if she is having a lucid moment, a moment where she realizes that she spends her days and nights in a locked ward, full of others, who, like her, have had themselves stolen away from them. I rub her arm and tell her that everything will be alright. I remind her that lunch will be served soon and tell her that I always feel better after lunch. She says that maybe it will help, but doesn't sound convinced. Today, unlike the rest, the nurse's assistants are allowing her to sit next to him, rather than separating them to keep them from sharing their meals.

Tears continue streaming down her face, and I hand her a tissue. There isn't really much more I can say to make her feel better. He isn't her husband and, he isn't her son, like she calls him most days, but he stays with her. Mr. R sits, cupping Ms. V's hands between his. patting and rubbing, clearly upset by her display of emotion. Mr. R doesn't say much; she's the talker in the relationship. He seems content most days to hold her hand. He leans forward and punches her leg lightly in a "buck up" sort of gesture, then looks up at her and says, not quite clearly, "I love you."

I feel like an intruder on their private moment. In a world where things are the same every day, where Ms. V has so little control over her own life, for that one little moment things are better. She returns the I love you, and leans toward him for a kiss. I cease to exist to them. In their certain world full of confusion, they have a moment of peace. She calms, still holding his hand, but without the desperation I saw when I came in. And I tell her I'll see her on Tuesday.