In need of a hug?

She sits among several of her fellow residents at the long term care facility I visit, ensconced in her wheel chair, sometimes napping, sometimes staring. I suppose I've walked past her dozens of times, greeting her with a casual “Hello” or “How are you?” I can’t say I've taken the time to wait for a response. I've felt her tired eyes following me as I've quickly disappeared around the corner and down the hallway.

But this day, she stopped me cold in my tracks.

She seemed to cock her head slightly to the right, squinting in my direction, and before I could pass by, she declared in a gruff voice I heard for the first time: “You’re good looking.”

Suppressing a smile and glancing around to see if anyone else had heard, I thanked her.

“Well, you are,” she said, as if to preempt any disavowal on my part.

I shook my head from side to side, chuckling to myself as I walked down the hall. Then later, having made my visits, I returned to exit from the same place I had entered.

She was still guarding the hallway.

“Well,” I said grinning at her, “Am I?”

“Are you what?” she rejoined matter of factly.

“Am I still good looking?” I jokingly asked, but also testing her memory.

“Oh yeah,” she said with no expression, “You’re good looking.”

“I think I’m going to tell my wife what you said, just in case she’s forgotten or disagrees,” I teased.

“What’s her name?”

“Lori.”

“Well, she’ll agree,” she affirmed.

That evening, Lori enjoyed hearing about my new friend at the long term care facility.

The next week, when I visited the facility, she was in her usual place.

“How are you?” This time I waited long enough for her answer.

She wasn’t feeling well. “Probably a cold,” she told me.

Having made my visits, I spoke to her on my way out.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

Her words halted my speedy exit.

“Well, yes,” I answered, “I love you.”

“Then prove it,” she demanded.

I hesitated  before asking  with some degree of trepidation, “How?”

“Hug me,” was her simple answer.

That was it, a hug. That’s what she really wanted from someone.

Now picture this: Germaphobe that I am, I bend down and try pulling her towards me from her wheel chair so I can wrap my arms around the dear soul. And just as I get up close and personal, she begins coughing uncontrollably. Too late to retreat, I absorb it.

Then, with arms around her, I squeeze for just a moment.

“Did I prove it?” I ask.

“You did,” she said, apparently satisfied.

I've read where we need at least eight hugs a day to maintain emotional well-being. And I suppose there is truth in that. Maybe mine was just one among her eight for the day, but guessing by her reaction, it seemed like her only one.

You don’t have to be in a long term care facility to be there, in that lonely place, uncertain if anyone cares enough to reach down and extend a hand of grace.  And in your ache, your request remains buried deep within, for you fear you might receive the answer you dread hearing and so you endure the prolonged angst anticipating no response at all. You blend into the furniture you inhabit and fade into the walls surrounding you. You feel yourself melting into the floor beneath you.

Even as you still long for a rescue.

I suppose she had many hugs in her past--- but having come to this day in this place, an occupant in what is likely her last residence on earth---she needed that particular one. Life, when it comes to that point, is something of a bittersweet symphony: Having put so much in, we only want in return something beautiful, even if it is a tiny thing--- an embrace, a touch, or an acknowledgement that we exist. Even when we are beyond articulating it in sophisticated ways, we secretly hope some kind words we attempted might one day bear fruit in those to whom we have given them and that we in turn might reap some good in our time of need.

Even if it’s only a hug from a stranger.