MS is lying in bed, with tears streaming down her face. ****** and sobbing. The trained professional part of me quickly analyzes her for any obvious signs to explain her discomfort. I see no obvious signs. I quietly walk over to her bed and sit down at the edge. I take her hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze.
We exchange no words. I sit quietly while she cries.
Finally, she blows her nose on a tissue and looks at me with bloodshot, tired eyes and a worn, haggard face.
“I’m sorry”.
“For ******? Don’t ever be. Human beings cry.”
“I’m scared. I’m hurt. I don’t know what to do”.
Silence. A pause.
“I just got off the phone with Dylon. My older ***. We had a fight…”
The tears begin again.
