The Hand Hold

Alan used to hit me—not on purpose. His arms had a mind of their own when he got excited, and more often than not, I ended up with a shoulder bruise or fat lip.

So I started holding his hand. It calmed him. Grounded him. Let him know it was okay. Even when he didn’t have the words, that handhold spoke for us. Sometimes I’d catch myself rubbing the back of his hand without even thinking. It became second nature—a silent way to say, “I’m here, you’re safe.”

On June 7th, in the ICU, he was sedated. Quiet. Still so clearly him. I did what I always did. I grabbed his hand.

And he squeezed it.

That squeeze felt like everything—that he knew I was there, that we were still in this together.

But the last time I held his hand… nothing. Just cold.

I rubbed the back of it anyway. Still trying. Still hoping he knew.

I pray he did.

Because when I let go, part of me stayed in that bed with him.

Isaiah 41:13—“For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.”