Patients on the fourth floor of Ward 5 don’t talk. But they do look at you. They are the patients of Maxillofacial Surgery and Otolaryngology, where surgery of the face, mouth and throat is carried out, which, although for therapeutic purposes, radically affects the face, a unique expression of personal identity, and the articulation of speech.
Disfigured faces. Dumb looks. Grimaces of pain. Pleading expressions. When I enter this ward I feel pressure on my heart, stronger than anywhere else.
There is one patient whose tongue was removed. I was introduced to him by the primary doctor of the unit. He looks at me patiently and responds to my questions by nodding his head and with slight movements of his hand. His face is swollen and crossing his neck, from one end to the other, is a large, oblique wound, closed by dozens of metal clasps, which resemble a chain. He suffers greatly. He feels the pangs of hunger, but he cannot ingest food. He feels thirst, but cannot ingest liquid. He has many pains and, at times, despite the artificial feeding and hydration tubes that limit his movements, he leans his chest forward, seeking a bit of relief. I lightly touch his bottom limbs, covered by bedsheets. I want to take away his suffering but I feel impotent. With his consent, I absolve him of his sins, I bless him and entrust him to the Lord, asking that He alleviate his pain.
I barely catch the meaning of a word she laboriously utters: “Again”
A little farther on, in another room, there is a patient who is bedridden and has a hole in her trachea from which a huge plugged tube is sticking out. She looks at me with expressive eyes and hints, with slightly parted lips, at a slight smile. She grasps my hand. I am told that she is a very devout woman. Before she became ill, she was part of a prayer group. I pray with her. An Our Father, a Hail Mary and a Glory Be. I barely catch the meaning of a word she laboriously utters. More than hearing it, I read it on her half-closed lips, “Again.” I understand that she wishes to pray again. I recite more prayers. “Again.” I continue until I run out of prayers I know. “Again.” I shake her hand and scroll through the pages of a liturgical site in my cell phone, searching for more formulas, which would give voice to her stifled cry. I search for more drops of hope, in an attempt to quench her thirst. I repeat all the Lauretan Litanies, prayers to St. Joseph and the Divine Mercy Chaplet. I pray for her and with her, lending her my poor voice. Then I absolve her and bless her. Once again I feel helpless. I wish that she, too, would be healed and could quickly regain serenity and health. But, perhaps, it will no longer be possible. And I enter, pensively, into the mystery of evil, of which illness is a dramatic aspect. Then I look up. On the white wall of the room, small but visible, hangs a Cross.
