She had just finished with a medical procedure and was fast asleep. I asked the Care Manger if there was someone there who had a story to tell and would like a visit.
She introduced me to a woman who had so many inspirational stories. That’s when I realized that everyone has a story, and as we age, we are anxious (usually) to tell them. Maybe that’s why we have so many writers right now. If every writer would record just one scene of someone’s story, we would have a rich quilt (afghan for you knitters out there) of lives coming together. Here’s a short one.
The Trauma Center is a specialized facility for any emergency at any time. Usually, the clock of life is ticking down on the patients who are wheeled through their doors. The doctors and staff spend hours at operating tables reattaching things and doing heroics on body parts that have broken.
And then there is the housekeeper. She has no degrees behind her name, but every patient remembers her. As she cleans their room, she sings them a prayer. The words are impromtu. The melody is made up. Her voice is clear and beautiful as she mops with carols such as: “Lord, take care of Joan. Hold Joan in the palm of your hand. Help her to….”
When the housekeeper knows that someone is being transferred away from the trauma unit, she’ll walk with one hand on the guerney, singing a prayer for the patient all the way to the ambulance.
The doctors don’t mind. The staff doesn’t mind. The patients?
They feel blessed.