Looking down

He’s very weak. He’s stress-coughing—sometimes for hours: nonproductive dry coughs, even though his lungs are clear. He prefers not to take meds that reduce stress.

He hasn’t energy to converse. He spells out essential orders—in phrases, mostly, rather than complete sentences. He answers yes-or-no questions by beeping a button on his wheelchair like Captain Christopher Pike.

His head is almost always bent forward to rest on his chest so that saliva can drain out onto the kleenex in his mouth, and his eyes look down toward his lap. He’ll raise his head sometimes to look at his computer or have spray put in his nose, but mostly he’s looking down, listening to NPR or to music . . . or coughing.

That means he rarely makes eye contact with anyone. People can get down on their knees and peer up at him, but no matter where they kneel—to the side, or in front of his chair—his eyes still point toward his lap; it’s not comfortable for him to angle his eyes sideways or up, so kneeling doesn’t usually result in eye contact, and certainly not sustained contact. His wife will bend near his face to kiss him and say loving things to him, but other people doing that causes him stress.

Isolation isn’t just a matter of staying in the same room twenty-four hours a day. And it isn’t just a matter of not conversing. Eye contact is a real loss.

At least from my point of view.