Cover image for article: The Power of Human Touch

When I was 19 years old I saw a woman die in slow motion. She wasn’t sick. Her lot in life wasn’t over. But she started dying anyway. I showed up one day, and she was gone.
Wilma* was a patient in a skilled nursing facility. I was her designated “visitor” from the community. We got along splendidly. She was cranky and I was crabby. We both thought we were funnier than we—in all probability—were.
Read more