Galina T. (ESE) - On Sensory Care

I don’t even know how it happens, but if I stand near someone for just a little while, I can sense their physical well-being. At that moment, a warm, tender feeling of empathy—even love for the sick person—switches on inside me, and my conscience kicks in, too.

I would feel ashamed to just walk away and not help; I feel compelled to jump into action to save them. Inside, a voice says, "I know exactly how to treat them!" And I often start doing just that. If it's my immediate family, I "corral" them into bed and strictly make sure they stay there and rest. Meanwhile, deep down, I sometimes even rejoice that the hour for my masterful work has come, while on the other hand, my heart breaks with pity for their physical ailments. All these passions brew and bubble inside me. But my antenna—my body—keenly feels every change in the patient's condition. And the moment I feel they are getting better, an avalanche of warmth and happiness floods out of me, and I just know they will recover.

And it’s not just people I heal—it’s even aquarium fish. Once, I walked into the room and saw our favorite catfish floating belly up. In an instant, a wave of pity pierced right through me—in a split second, my body felt completely helpless, and inside, I felt guilty, guilty that he had died. It was evening, so I didn't throw the fish out and left it until morning. When I came back the next day, he was swimming happily, begging for food...