I didn’t notice the tears running down her face until I made an off-hand comment and glanced over.

We had just entered the elevator at a large medical tower, where I’d completed my annual physical.

Stymied by uncertainty about what to say or whether to acknowledge her sorrow, I turned back to stare at the elevator doors, frantically searching for the right action or words.

Crying in a medical facility could mean anything. Anything at all.

I recalled an incident from decades ago: I fled into the terminal from the drop-off zone outside the San Francisco airport after helping my boyfriend-as-of-two-minutes-ago move there from Chicago. (Go ahead. Make an “I left my heart in San Francisco” joke. I’ll wait.)

Stopped by the nearly empty security line, the attendant said a few kind words to me that made me feel better. Not great. But better.

I still remember exactly what she looked like.

What she said I’ve lost, though I haven’t forgotten the memory of her kindness. And it makes me think I should have said something to the quietly weeping woman who shared my elevator carriage down to the ground floor of the medical building.

I should have extended her some small human kindness.

But what? Help me:

What should I have said to the crying woman in the elevator?