The notebook · October 9, 2026

The room where I don’t know where to stand

The nurse came in with her trolley just as I was sitting down. She said she was there to change the dressing, and that I could stay if I wanted. I said yes very quickly, the way you answer a courtesy. Then I got up again, because the chair was exactly where she needed to put her tray.

And then I no longer knew where to put myself.

By the bed, I was in the way. By the door, I looked as if I was leaving. I ended up against the window, my coat over my arm, and for a while the coat rescued me: it gave my hands something to do. I folded it, unfolded it, folded it again. My hands wanted a task. There was none for them in that room.

I nearly offered to help. Hold something, pass a dressing. I felt the sentence rise and swallowed it, because I knew what it meant: don’t leave me useless. It was not for my friend. It was for me.

So I watched. The nurse spoke to my friend by her first name, in no hurry, saying each gesture just before she made it. Her hands knew. And my friend, lying there, turned her head a little towards the wall and let it be done. She knew too. Receiving a gesture is a kind of knowledge. I was the only one in the room who knew nothing at all.

It lasted perhaps ten minutes. Every second I felt I was one too many, and at the same time I would not have wanted to leave. I still do not know which of the two feelings was right.

Tonight I tried to pray for my friend, and the nurse came first. I do not know her name. I entrusted her anyway, with her steady hands and her trolley. Then I tried to say something for myself, the woman against the window, and nothing came. I do not yet know what you ask for when there is nothing to do but be there.

I do not know either whether staying counted. I am going back on Tuesday. I will leave the coat in the car.

Manna gives you one prayer a day, even for the days when you are no use at all.