WHEN WORDS FAIL, A TOUCH SPEAKS LOUDER.
The image is embedded in my mind even after decades, flashing vividly as if it happened only yesterday. I remember rushing from my faraway workplace upon hearing the news of my first child’s birth. Exhausted but exhilarated, I dashed to the hospital as soon as I landed. My wife greeted me with the sweetest smile, and there, wrapped up by her side, lay our gift — our treasure. His tiny face, with closed eyes and chubby cheeks, enamored me completely.
I wondered aloud if he was a mother’s boy. The way he nestled by her side made it seem so, and my wife’s beaming smile confirmed my thoughts. Slowly and carefully, I unwrapped the towel enveloping him, wanting to see more this little miracle. His tiny hands and legs looked so delicate and endearing. I remembered feeling those same tiny movements when he pushed and pulled inside his mother’s womb. I held his hands — they were soft, cold, and so fragile. Yet, there was a faint , persistent grip, as if he was holding onto me me with all his might.
It felt as though he was silently telling me, “Hold my hand.” And so, I did — tightly and lovingly. My wife watched with pride and moist eyes, witnessing the bond form. That moment remains one of the most cherished in my life, a memory I often revisit with fondness.
As time passed, our little grew. Crawling turned into shaky steps, and soon walking became second nature. I held his hand through this journey, strengthening a bond that was unspoken yet powerful. His wobbly steps grew firm and confident, and eventually, his hand slipped from mine as he ventured into the world of challenges. Though my physical hold loosened, I remained a watchful guide, tracking his growth, education, and passions. His achievements became my pride, and watching him succeed was the ultimate joy of parenthood.
Life, however, is unpredictable. Years passed, bringing with them both surprises and shocks. Life’s commitments and alignments brought changes that had to be accepted in silence.
Destiny eventually left me to live alone, adapting to a retired lifestyle. My son, now far away, had his own life. Though the days were often quiet, I carried on, cherishing the smooth rhythm of health and memories.
On December 23rd, close to Christmas, life took a n unexpected tern. During rehearsals for a skit in our apartment’s Christmas celebrations, I felt a sudden dizziness and blacked out. When I gained awareness, I was lying in a hospital bed. I could hear the conversations around me, but my body refused to respond. It was a tormenting experience — the mind willing, yet the body unable to act.
I heard people talking about my son coming, hurried footsteps, and hushed voices. Time seemed to stretch endlessly until I recognized my son’s voice asking, “How is he, doctor?” After a long pause, the reply came, “He is sinking.”
Hearing those words shook me. I wanted to scream that I felt fine inside, that I was alive, but my body failed me. Then, I felt a touch — a familiar, warm grip on my hand. I knew it was my son His touch was electrifying, filled with sorrow yet comforting.
“Dad”, he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. I wanted to respond, to hug him, but my emotions were trapped inside. Silence filled the room, and I could almost feel his gaze fixed on me. Then, suddenly, I heard him, “Doctor, he blinked!”
The room erupted into action. The doctor rushed in, followed by a flurry of activity. “Call the neuro,” someone shouted. The moment marked the beginning of my recovery — a miracle, as the doctor later described it.
The touch of my son’s hand had brought me back in those helpless moments, I had become like a child again, relying on him just as he had once relied on me. The physical connection, the love in his voice, and the grief in his heart worked wonders that medicine could not explain. It was magic. It was mystery. It was a miracle.
All because of an act — a simple act, repeated after decades.
The act which “HELD MY HAND.”
