Elbows on the Bedrail

“Hi Lizzy!”

Every morning without fail, she greeted me that way. Her voice was soft, but her warmth filled the room. Stage IV breast cancer had carved away at her body, left its shadows on her brain, but her spirit remained bright and intact.

“Hi Martha,” I’d reply, resting my elbows on the bed rail and leaning in close. She had a way of drawing me in, of making time bend.

She never raised her voice, but her hands were never still. They fluttered and danced as she told her stories, punctuating memories, sketching out scenes in the air.

One morning, she picked up one of the two cell phones that were always on her lap.

“Wanna see what I used to look like before cancer stole everything?”

She swiped through her gallery, pausing on photo after photo. One was of a woman, radiant and strong, long braids cascading down her back, arms wrapped around two small children. “That’s my son,” she said, pointing at the older child. “I don’t play with him. I tell him: no sagging pants, no skipping class.” She wagged her finger at me as she spoke as if she was reliving the moment. “Sorry for pointing at you.”

Another day, she placed her hands gently over mine. “Lizzy, my dear, how are you?” Her touch lingered. “Sorry for touching you.”

It never bothered me. Her touch, her voice, her stories… they grounded me. They pulled me out of the rush and reminded me why I was here.

She talked about her body, how it had changed. “I’ve never had… what do you call it? An hourglass figure?” she said once, chuckling. “But I had a little something, and I was proud of it.” Now, she was incredibly thin. “Skin and bones,” she’d say with a grimace. She was nearly drowning under the thick pink comforter her son brought from home.

She’d try to lift her legs when I’d ask, but they barely moved. I’d hold my hands six inches above her feet, and she couldn’t reach them. She noticed. She always noticed.

“I hate how weak I’ve gotten,” she murmured once, tugging at the edge of the blanket.

She always kept her head covered – sometimes with a soft hat, sometimes a bandana, sometimes the blue hospital-issued covers. Her head had been shaved for treatment, and she was embarrassed by it. Still, she told her stories with pride and humor.

Like the time her older brother ordered her to cook dinner while he played video games. Furious, she over-salted the food on purpose, only to realize she’d have to eat it too. “He bought us Chinese food instead,” she laughed. “I never did that again. He never yelled at me again either.”

Or the day she stood up to an older bully who made her do her homework after school. “My mom told me to say no,” she said. “So I did. The girl caught me outside later. We tussled a bit. I landed one punch to the gut and boom, she went down.” She grinned, holding up a tiny but still-clenched fist.

She loved telling those stories. Those were the moments when her body was strong, her voice was heard, and her boundaries were clear.

Now, she couldn’t cook. She couldn’t even eat much. “My kids don’t understand,” she said, eyes weary. “They keep pressuring me to finish my plate, but I just can’t.”

She’d offered again and again to teach her daughter how to make her famous stewed chicken. “Some other time, Mom,” her daughter would say, rushing out the door. But those “other times” had run out. Now, even if she wanted to teach her, her hands were too weak, her appetite too far gone. The recipes would fade quietly with her.

One day, her doctors and I came to tell her that she needed a lumbar puncture. She tensed immediately, her body stiff with panic. Her daughter had told me about her needle phobia – how she’d sobbed, vomited, and shaken through past procedures. Martha looked at me, eyes wide. “I don’t want to be paralyzed,” she whispered.

I took her hands, leaned in, and – elbows on the bedrail – said, “Martha. You are strong. You knocked a bully down with one punch. That Martha is still in there. And she can do this.”

Her eyes watered, but she nodded. And then, gently, she squeezed my hand.

That afternoon, she had the procedure.

It was not an act of conquest or control. It was an act of trust.

Not in medicine. Not even in herself. But in the memory of her own strength, passed like a quiet inheritance to someone who had come to see just how precious life’s little moments are. 

I invaded her space every morning when I rounded, and she – physically, emotionally, and apologetically – invaded mine. I welcomed this exchange.