Shirley

Her name was Shirley, she was 76 years old, and the last thing she told me was that she was looking forward to drinking tea with me, but that she was going to go home and rest awhile. I hugged her granddaughter goodbye, went out to the elevator, and cried. She was so tiny, in that hospital bed, with great bruises on her arms from the blood thinners and a tear on her shoulder from a piece of tape that took the skin with it. Even when I held her hand, the skin turned dark under my thumb. Her eyes were still so blue, but she found it hard to talk to me much. She just smiled and called me "honey" as we got her ready to go home for the last time.

There were more tears, three days later, when Sherrie told me that her gran was dead. How odd, to be sincerely mourning the death of someone I've only spent a few hours with over the course of several months, but I do, regardless.

After they took her home, one of the last things she had them do was hang this picture. That's us, there in the middle--my mom, dad, and siblings. She always wanted to hear about my family, and one night I went to see her, late, and took a picture so she'd know what they looked like. When she went home, she added it to the family tree on her living room wall. It was one of the most profound gifts I have ever experienced, to be so welcomed into a family like that.

They tell us not to let people in, to leave work in the hospital and separate your life and emotion from the people you treat--that they will sap your strength and break your heart if you give them too much of yourself. And that is the truth of it. But every once in a while, you meet people who are worth it. Tears are such a small price to pay for being able to feel like I meant a great deal to that family, that I could actively make their lives better with just a little time and caring. Those are such small things, sometimes.

Anyway.