If Only We Knew the Weight Behind Their Hands

Pamela never thought her life would slow down long enough for her to notice the scent of antiseptic floors or the rhythmic beeping of hospital monitors. Bermuda was home to warm breezes, ocean laughter, and sunlight that rested gently on the soul. But now she lay still, wrapped in a thin gown that felt too fragile for a woman who had survived so much.

She had always been the strong one. The helper. The one who showed up for everyone else. Now, she waited quiet, uncertain, and learning the unfamiliar discipline of letting others care for her.

When the doctor walked into her room, Pamela studied him. His posture was straight, his eyes thoughtful, his voice steady enough to calm the storm inside her. In that moment, she assumed he lived untouched by emotional turbulence that he went home, slept well, and returned each day without carrying the weight of yesterday.

But if only she knew.

Behind his professionalism were memories he never spoke of
hands he held in final moments, faces he could not save, prayers whispered between heartbeats when science had no more answers. His silence was not distance. It was grief wrapped in discipline.

Then the nurse arrived.

She adjusted Pamela’s blanket with the tenderness of a mother settling a child for sleep. Her smile felt warm, familiar
even comforting. She asked questions, reassured gently, and made the unfamiliar feel survivable.

But if only Pamela knew this nurse often cried in her car not because she was weak, but because she poured herself into people who would never know the cost.

And then came the caretaker.

Her name was Grace quiet, humble, almost invisible to those in a hurry. She held Pamela’s hand when pain overwhelmed her. She brushed her hair, slowed her breathing with soft words, and stayed longer than her shift required.

Pamela didn’t know Grace worked double shifts, cared for aging parents, and prayed silently over every patient she touched.

One afternoon, Pamela watched them all three.
The doctor exhaled deeply in the hallway.
The nurse leaned against a wall to gather strength.
Grace whispered a prayer only Heaven could hear.
And Pamela’s heart broke not from sickness, but from realization

Healing was never just medicine. Healing was sacrifice.
With tears rising, she whispered words she wished she had said sooner.
“Thank you. I see you.”

Reflection

If only we paused long enough, we would see the price others pay to help us stand.

Honor the hands that hold you. And if you are one of them may you never forget your work matters.

For prayer or counseling, contact Dr. David Rex Orgen 614-753-3925.

Written by Dr. David Rex Orgen, Best-Selling Author and International Mental Health Expert