Do you hold the hand or complain

She sat in a reclined chair in the corner screaming the terror of dementia,

Pleading

mirrored in the look of her daughter's eyes

"Alkonie*" I said. "Hi! Can you wake up? It's so good to see you again! I missed you this weekend. You did so well on Friday."

"Who are you?" eyes closed

"It's your friend, Joyce. I worked with you last week, and we took a walk around the floor together."

Eyes flew open by the force of astonishment. "I have a friend?! You're visiting me?"

At first, I laughed at her earnestness. And then I thought about it for a moment "Yes, Alkonie, I'm your friend. Do you want to see what games I brought today?" 

On Friday, with her adult son nearby, we had walked 150 feet to dinner. They chewed on hope while Alkonie chewed on strained green beans. Now, on Tuesday, I was content with getting her to use arms weighted by fatigue and weights to hit a balloon back and forth with me using racquets. She stuck with it for minutes, before falling asleep, awakening at my shaking, and with no recollection, playing again. 

She had spunk. 

Throughout my days, I had heard complaints from people about the lady "screaming all night."

And I heard a complaint about the complainers, who did not filter their frustration, from the daughter-in-law.

And to be fair, every 3 minutes, Alkonie did howl that she was drowning, that she was lost, that she was dying but ceased when attended to. And so most trips down the hall, I did attend to her. 

But then, instead of complaining, several of the more independent residents who have permission to roam the halls...they took turns sitting with her, holding her hand. Men, women, young, old. Three or four of them. For two hours, maybe three at a time. 

When Alkonie's daughter wasn't there, someone else was. 

I did not pray for her life, because I did not believe that she was in danger of dying, but she slipped into Peace Tuesday night. 

But not before making me laugh at her spunk, wonderment, quirks, and funny habits. 

Not before watching children support the woman who had borne them, sacrificed for them, cooked for them, raised them, and celebrated with them. 

And not before watching how the words or hand of new friends could act as a salve for the deep pain that medicine couldn't touch.

And it begs the question in all of us. When we see the Ugly Hard, do we choose to hold the hand or complain? 

*name changed. Details limited. Yes, I know about HIPAA