This is me

Clouds

We sit looking at each other, the silence resting between us softly. My chair is beside the bed of a young woman whose head is half wrapped in bandages, dark curls peeking out from the edge of the gauze. One arm is in a sling held close to her side. Her leg is slightly uncovered, and I can see the skin on her thigh above the bandage, strangely dented by parallel lines looking like burns.

This woman fell on to the tracks of the subway the day before, and was struck by a train coming in to the station. That she is alive, and talking with me, is amazing. Mentally I offer a prayer of gratitude to the universe for this young woman’s survival. The image of her falling – or jumping – down to the tracks runs through my mind, horrid and vivid. Taking a breath, I try to clear my mind and stay present.

I introduce myself, explaining I am a chaplain in the hospital.

She glances my way briefly, returns to staring out the window. I like those…in the sky. Those… she gestures.

Clouds?, I offer.

Clouds! Yes, l like…those. Like, to paint…. Her voice falters.

It occurs to me she is looking for words.

I came… school here. Art. Paint. She looks over at me, straightens in the bed. Reaching down, she gently pulls her thigh so she can move her body to a new position.

I wait beside her; after a few moments she looks up.

I…this just… all this (she gestures to her body).  She struggles for the words, exhaling a frustrated sound.

Words seem hard to speak at the moment, I observe.

She nods. I want… just the saying.

We subside back into silence.

Why not draw?

An idea occurs to me; reaching into the folder on my lap, I pull out a sheaf of papers, and a pen.

You are an artist, right? Maybe you would like to draw something? I extend the wad of paper.

She brightens up immediately, and reaches for the pen. Her right hand is bandaged up to the fingers; pulling the sling back slightly, she positions the pen using her left hand to close her fingers, thumb on top. Despite the awkward grasp she maneuvers easily, relaxing as the pen moves across the paper.

This is me, she says, drawing a tree, a swing hanging from a branch. On the swing is a smiling figure, hair curling wildly outward from the head.

This is me, too, she continues, drawing the same face, with curly hair and tears falling from the eyes, like ants working a path down the paper. Over the weeping figure is a cloud, which she fills with swirls of ink, until the cloud is full and dark.

Then these. Problems, really. She draws the figure that seems to be herself, then draws an increasing number of figures around her, a crowd.

There are a lot of those people, I venture.

Yeah. So many. And you know, not nice. I am struck with the easy flow of her words while she is drawing.  

Do you know what I want to do? she asks, turning to me.

I would love to know that, I reply. The fact that the paper and pen in her hand has allowed her to illustrate her thoughts, and speak more freely, has not escaped me. I wonder at the way some door of communication has opened inside her.

“You found me”

She draws a building, the little curly-haired figure painting a side of the building. Murals. That would be fun. Or maybe, like a mentor. Help other people decide what to do.

She draws a desk, with a chair. Flipping the paper over, she draws on the other side. Maybe animals.

She draws a rabbit, then a few rabbits. Adds a dog, one ear flopping over as it looks back at her, tongue hanging out, a friendly look on his face. I’d like to have a dog.

Still sketching, she declares, Tomorrow I am going to another place. Somewhere else.  I just hope someone tells momma.

Does the nurse have your mother’s number?  Thinking I had better check, I get up – at the same moment there is a knock at the door. An older woman comes into the room. I nod in greeting.

Momma! S- calls out. You found me!

Yes, honey, I am here, the woman replies, moving to the bed and stroking S-’s face. She kisses her forehead, settles into the chair.

After introducing myself, I depart and leave them to visit, S- already busy drawing something for her mother.