A persistent hum vibrated behind my ear, a ghost of seven violent sneezes. It was a faint, musical thrum, an insistent reminder of disruption as I watched the clock in Martha’s room. 2:46 PM. The silence wasn’t empty; it was dense, filled with the rustle of Martha’s blanket and her shallow breath. My instinct, always, was to fill it. To ask a question. To offer water. To *do* something. Anything. I’d practiced empathetic nods, memorized 36 conversational prompts Ben R.J., our hospice volunteer coordinator, had provided. But Ben, with his crinkled eyes, had drilled one particular lesson into us: the 46-second challenge.
“Most people can’t manage it,” he’d said one overcast Tuesday. “They treat the silence like a void, not a presence.” He leaned against the doorframe, a faint scent of old books clinging to his tweed jacket. “You want to fix. You want to cheer. But sometimes, the most profoundly useful thing you can offer… is nothing. Just your presence. Unburdened by expectation.”
This was my core frustration: my value felt tied to my utility. In Martha’s room, facing that deep quiet, I felt utterly useless. My internal monologue raced. Adjust blinds? Read poetry? Comment on the photo of a younger Martha, taken perhaps in 1986? Every fiber of my being screamed for an action to justify my 1 hour and 16 minutes in that wooden chair.
It felt counterintuitive, almost disrespectful, to *not* solve problems. We are problem-solving machines, tuned to identify discomfort and seek its eradication. If someone is sad, we cheer them. If hungry, we feed them. If struggling to express themselves, we aid communication. But what if the struggle itself held sacred space? What if the awkward silence, the unaddressed pain, was exactly where true connection could forge itself, not despite discomfort, but *because* of it?
This was Ben’s contrarian angle, a radical departure from service narratives championing tangible acts. He wasn’t suggesting indifference. He advocated for deeper engagement: the courage to witness without judgment, without imposing your comfort narrative onto another’s pain.
The Power of Patience
I once, early in my volunteering, tried to “help” Mr. Davison. He was visibly agitated, brow furrowed, muttering words I couldn’t discern. His vocalizations were fragmented. My immediate response, fueled by the pressure to “be helpful,” was to interpret, suggest, finish his sentences. “Are you talking about the weather, Mr. Davison? Is it too warm?” I’d asked. Or, “Do you want me to read the newspaper? There’s an interesting piece about a local festival, started in 1956.” I proposed different topics. He grew more frustrated, his hand flailing weakly towards me, a profound rejection.
“I thought I was empathetic. In hindsight, I was imposing my frantic need for order onto his chaotic moment. My discomfort with his struggle to articulate overshadowed his need to struggle through it.”
Ben, I learned, observed this from the hallway. He just looked at me afterwards, not with judgment, but with a profound weariness. “Sometimes,” he’d said, his voice softer, “the best translation tool is patience. Not an interruption. What if the words aren’t meant for you to understand, but for him to voice, however broken? What if the utterance itself is the release?” It was a stinging rebuke, gentle yet firm, that stayed with me for weeks. I spent $26 on coffee thinking about it.
Bridging Gaps: Presence and Technology
Mr. Davison’s struggle reminds me of communication and presence. It’s not just what we say, but how it’s received or formed, especially when voicing thoughts is compromised. Where the voice itself becomes a barrier, where articulation fails, and words are trapped behind an uncooperative larynx, technology can bridge the gap. It offers a lifeline, allowing an inner world to manifest outwardly. We’ve discussed tools aiding communication challenges. Ben, despite his emphasis on stillness, supported practical aid that genuinely enhanced connection.
It’s a different kind of presence when technology lets a silent voice be heard. For those whose vocal cords fail, the ability to convert text to speech can be a profound gift, allowing them to participate, to share stories, needs, and deepest truths, even when biological speech is compromised.
It enables “being heard” without relying on listener interpretation, preserving original intent through a synthetic voice. It’s about enabling presence, not replacing it, creating a new avenue for connection. This is powerful aid, serving the deeper purpose: to honor the individual’s right to be understood, to exist authentically in their final chapter. The facility invested around $466 for their setup, but the value was immeasurable.
The Essence of Inherent Value
The deeper meaning of Ben’s “being, not doing” philosophy, and even communication aids, is profound recognition of inherent value, irrespective of output. It challenges our performance-driven metrics of worth. Are we only valuable when productive, solving, actively engaged in visible labor? Ben taught that in quiet spaces, in uncomfortable silences, when we strip away the need to perform, that’s where potent empathy resides.
Volunteering Start
Early struggles with ‘doing’.
Ben’s Wisdom
The ’46-second challenge’.
Deeper Insight
Value beyond utility.
It’s in the quiet acknowledgement of another’s existence, flawed and beautiful. It’s a mirror reflecting our anxieties about vulnerability. If we can’t sit with another’s pain, how can we sit with our own? The hum behind my ear, post-sneeze vibrations that pulsed subtly for 6 minutes, reminded me of my body’s tiny rebellion. It forced focus, sharpening awareness to subtle shifts: antiseptic scent, Martha’s gentle rise and fall of chest. This isn’t just about hospice; it’s about every relationship. Leadership that listens more than dictates. Parenting that understands holding space for emotions. Friendship that offers steadfast presence.
Embracing Dignity in the Process
It is about understanding that sometimes, the greatest gift is permission to not be okay, and to not need us to make them okay. To allow them dignity of their own process, feelings, and quiet reckoning. This understanding became part of my DNA, altering how I navigated the world, how I listened to friends, how I approached difficult conversations, even how I handled my own internal struggles. It was a liberation from the constant pressure to perform.
Constant Action Needed
Freedom to Simply Be
Martha shifted again, eyes fluttering open, then closing, a faint smile ghosting her lips. She didn’t say anything, nor did I. The hum in my ear finally faded, leaving profound stillness, not empty, but full. A sense of shared humanity that needed no words, no actions, no intervention. Just the gentle, unwavering presence of one soul beside another, breathing in the quiet rhythm of existence.
The Unquantifiable Value of Presence
It cost nothing, yet it was everything. A quiet strength, accumulating over years of volunteering, reinforced by countless such moments. Sometimes, the only thing left to do is to watch the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun, knowing that our small moments of shared existence are far more substantial than any quick fix. The world outside could demand productivity, solutions, constant engagement. But in here, in this quiet room, there was only the sacred art of simply being, and it was enough. More than enough.
Incalculable
Value of Presence
A lesson worth more than any sum of money, even if it were a substantial $236 million. A lesson for life, lived and learned, in the quietest of places.
