“Filipino?”

I looked up, curious, and saw her wide, inquisitive eyes looking right into mine.

“Yes! How did you know?” I said with a big smile, which I hoped she could see even with my mask on.

“Kamusta ka, kamusta ka?” (“How are you, how are you?”) she said, beaming, as she warmed my heart more and more that day.

“Oh, that is amazing! That’s really good!” My colleague and I complimented her as she rolled over to one side as we changed her pad. I asked how she knew how to say those Tagalog greetings, but I think that words may have escaped her just then.

She is a neurology patient, with a cruel affliction which nobody deserves. With her knowing smile during our exchanges, though, you wouldn’t have imagined that she speaks very little English. And with the very same sweet, wrinkled grin, she always gave her thanks, looking thrilled to be constantly engaged in conversation which none of us can really translate 80% of the time.

The first thought that came to mind when I first saw her was that she was the epitome of a sweet little grandma—a tiny frame and a shy demeanor, and a nervous voice that calls out, “sister,” whenever she needs something far beyond what she can reach. With very limited range of motion, she tries to do things on her own, eager to regain every little bit of independence she could get hold of.

Using more hand signals than words, she timidly asked me to brush her hair. I did so, in loving fashion, telling her how soft her hair was, and that I’ll make her look cute. By the end of it, we were laughing at how I made her hair look like something out of “The Flintstones,” an old American animated series which was supposedly set in the stone ages.

I’m not really good with small talk; I fare better at expressing my thoughts through writing. I find peace in silence, and that can sometimes make situations awkward. Interestingly though, I found every encounter with this delightful little lady as comfortable as the soft armchair I plop myself onto after a grueling day—each was an absolute pleasure.

Sometimes, it’s quite easy to mistake “pity” as “compassion,” and it’s people like her who remind me of the imaginary line that differentiates the two. Yes, if you think about it, how can you not feel sorry for her? She needs someone to feed her. Unable to mobilise, she spends most of her day on a hospital bed, with the exception of when she’s sitting out on her chair—even then, she couldn’t go anywhere. But even with this very unfortunate circumstance, you can see her eyes brimming with love as she speaks about her family, and you can feel hope emanating from within her with the slightest touch of her hands. You can see that even with this trial in life, she’s still trying.

One afternoon, after her children had come to visit her, my colleague and I were all praises at how it was undeniable how much her children revered her. I told her, “I hope that if I’ll ever have kids, they’ll be like that too,”

“Make babies!” she cajoled.

I laughed and said, “but I don’t have anybody to make babies with!” To this, she grinned widely, and uttered a series of words, of which I could only understand ‘husband.’

“You know, before, I used to only prefer men who have the same native tongue. But I realised, our hearts don’t really care about language,” at this, she cocked her head, looking thoughtful. “Instead of connecting us, sometimes it does the exact opposite—it disconnects us and keeps us separated. But it shouldn’t be like that. Human connection doesn’t always need words. Like you and me,” holding her hand, I continued, “we don’t need to speak the same language for us to know what’s inside here,” I said, placing my hand on my chest.

She smiled.

And in that very moment, I knew she understood.