By Corine Jansen
As I walked into the living room of the care facility, I noticed the residents enjoying their morning coffee, a comforting ritual that seemed to bring them a sense of community. I made my way to the ground floor, where I found an 86-year-old woman who could no longer speak due to her illness. She sat silently in front of the television. I asked if she wanted to come with me, and she immediately rose, moving toward her room with a quiet determination.
Inside her spacious, high-ceilinged room overlooking a serene garden, I sat on the only chair available, taking in the surroundings. Two portraits of young women adorned the walls, but when I inquired about them, she only shrugged, leaving their stories untold. Despite the difficulty in reading her emotions, I felt a profound connection with her, a desire to engage in a form of communication that transcended words.
Guided by this feeling, I decided to sit beside her on the bed. I asked her what she saw, following her gaze to a large brown wardrobe. Her eyes remained fixed on the piece of furniture, and we sat silently beside each other, sharing an unspoken moment. Unable to bridge the gap with language, I took her hand and gently led her toward the closet. She traced her fingers over the wood’s surface, examining it with a depth of attention that suggested it held significance for her.
I pondered whether something about the wardrobe—its presence, color, or texture—was affecting her. To explore this, I picked up an art book and showed her various colors while standing by the closet. Each time, she pointed to white. Though our communication was limited, this repeated gesture felt meaningful. I wasn’t entirely sure if we understood each other, but her response seemed consistent. She then moved to the other side of the wardrobe, again running her fingers over the wood.
Leaving her momentarily, I approached the front desk, hoping to find sandpaper, thinking perhaps she wanted to alter the wardrobe’s surface. They had none. I returned to her room and sat once more on the bed, watching as her gaze lingered on the wardrobe. I opened the art book and once again asked her to point to a color; she pointed to white. As I observed her, I noticed small statues she had made, hinting at a creative past. It was a moment that filled me with inspiration and hope, wondering if she had once been a painter, expressing herself through color and form.
I left that day with a sense of tentative understanding. I shared my observations with the house manager, suggesting they consider providing her with painting supplies. They agreed to try it. Two weeks later, I received a heartwarming photo of the woman painting her wardrobe. Her smile and the strokes of color on the wardrobe filled me with a sense of accomplishment and joy, knowing that we had found a way for her to express herself.
This experience resonated deeply with Emmanuel Levinas’s philosophy, which spoke of the ‘face of the Other’ as an ethical appeal that commands our attention and responsibility. In encountering her silent, expressive gaze, I felt this appeal—a call to respond not with words but with presence and sensitivity. It was a powerful reminder of the importance of non-verbal communication in caregiving.