She was in her eighties and living in a nursing home. The administrator called and asked if I could come help. This patient was bedbound, nonverbal, and the entire right side of her body had been affected by a stroke. Her fingers were curled so tightly that the staff couldn’t trim her fingernails. The nursing staff were beginning to worry the nails would pierce her own skin.

I was nervous. I’d never worked with someone who couldn’t speak before, but I was honored they thought of me.

When I arrived, she was resting in bed. The room smelled like a mixture of antiseptic and something slightly sour. Her body looked small and frail. One side of her face drooped gently. I remember feeling a wave of compassion for her.

So I talked to her.

I told her who I was, what I was there to do, and what I wanted to try. I asked for permission before every move. And I watched her body’s responses like a language of its own.

Her skin was thin, her muscles tight like guitar strings. I used the lightest touch, just enough to smooth the lotion onto her skin. Then I "bent" the muscles of her forearm, one by one, gently back and forth, much like you would if you were pushing the guitar strings to slowly bend them. They loosened enough that I was able to extend her fingers.

Then I gently massaged the small muscles of each finger and finished by moving each arthritic joint to help with her range of motion. I asked if it felt good. She closed her eyes, her face softening, and she slowly nodded as she exhaled.

By the end of that first visit, the nurses were able to clip her fingernails.

They asked me to keep coming a few times a week.

One day, she was in too much pain for touch. I asked if she would like me to just sit with her a while. She nodded. That was enough. So I sat and meditated on healing, comforting thoughts for her.

Over those few weeks, I became her only regular visitor. Her niece lived far away and only came by on holidays. I didn’t do much: fifteen minutes of soft tissue work, then another ten or fifteen just being with her. But in those small pockets of time, a quiet bond grew.

Then came a Friday I will never forget.

I finished our session and told her I’d see her Monday. She shook her head no.

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I’ll be here Monday.”

She looked at me with no expression.

A tightness bloomed in my gut. “Are you planning on going somewhere?”

She nodded. Slowly.

“Ba-by,” she said. The first word I ever heard her say.

“Baby?" I paused. "You had a baby?”

She nodded again. “Go… see… ba-by.”

I smiled, even as the knot in my stomach grew. “Okay. Thank you for letting me work with you. If I don't see you Monday, I'll see you soon.” She nodded and closed her eyes.

When I left, I told a nurse I knew what had happened.

The nurse nodded, lips pressed together. “She had a miscarriage years ago. Never had children of her own. Her niece is all she has.”

Two days later, on Sunday, that same nurse called me.

“Hi, Sabrina," she sighed. "Sorry to call you on a weekend, but I thought you'd like to know... she passed this morning.”

She knew. My client knew she was going to die. And she wanted to go see her baby. I was floored, but not necessarily surprised. I'd seen Fried Green Tomatoes and knew "A lady always knows when to leave."

I don’t remember exactly how long I worked with her. Three or four weeks, maybe. My mentor used to say there would be that one client who would leave their imprint on you. This woman was mine.

She taught me things I couldn't have learned in school:

• That deep physical work isn’t always necessary to create deep impact.
• That communication goes beyond words. 
• That sometimes, the most important thing we can offer is to simply have compassion and hold space.

I walked into that room thinking I was there to work on a hand. I left having been touched by something much deeper. She is the one client I will never forget.