wither
In the Haze of Their Minds Breanna DeSimone I want to have on the people in my life. This is the reason I have come to volunteer. The stuffed animals hanging off of Wanda’s cart sway as we move on. I ask her questions about every patient, overflowing with curiosity. I want to know their stories, the lives they lived, the people they loved. Each pair of eyes staring back at me has a history hidden somewhere in the haze of their minds. To learn it is to carry those bright souls with me. Though none of them know it, they are also teaching me who I am.
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In her movements, I see the cage her body has become
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The contrast of her wrinkled hand against my smooth one is artwork. She touches my wrist so lightly I almost don’t feel it. My eyes are drawn to the web of bruising that decorates her delicate skin, and the way her fingers curl with arthritis. I look up to find a smile spreading across her face. “I really love you, you know,” she says with complete sincerity, “You’re such a beautiful girl.” I believe her, even though I only met this woman five minutes ago. As we sit there, I use the cotton pad to gently glide nail polish remover along her nails. The shimmering purple paint begins to dissolve beneath my gentle pressure. Every once in a while, she lays her hand on my wrist and tells me, “I really love you, you know. You’re such a beautiful girl.” — Wanda pushes her cart down the hall, stopping by every door. It is snack time, and I trail behind as she makes her rounds. She knows which drink and snack every patient likes the best. She talks to them as she fills up plastic cups with bright liquids. Their pure faces light up as they smile and joke with her. She treats them like human beings and in those small moments, they remember who they are. I am impressed by how well Wanda knows everyone and I am filled with affection for each beautiful soul I meet. I realize this is the effect
The beach ball floats ever so gently into the unmoving hands of the man in front of me. It falls into his lap and he grins like a toddler. I take the ball from him, careful not to bump his wheelchair. Looking around, I find the next participant. Buried in blankets, she barely lifts her arms, waiting to catch the ball. In her movements, I see the cage her body has become, unwilling to follow her commands. With this in
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