She was lying in a fetal position on her bed. The TV was on but the sound was turned down. Her blankets were pulled up to her neck and she was asleep. The room was dark with a small amount of light peeking through the drawn curtains. The sounds of nurses and staff in the halls were muted behind the closed door.
I was there to assess this fragile woman for placement into another facility. See, she is dying. She is only 43 years old. I woke her with a gentle hello and explained who I was and why I was there to meet with her. She opened her eyes and lifted her head a few inches off her pillow. I could see in the dim light that her skin was a sickening pale yellow. She whispered hello. That was about all I could elicit from her. She closed her eyes and fell back to sleep.
I stood in the dark room for a few minutes more before sitting down and feeling the heaviness of her situation. I read in her chart that she has a family but none had come to visit her. She was alienated from them. I could only guess what may have happened to cause her to be alone for the last few days of her life. I sat watching her sleep. Besides, the nursing staff of the facility, I was her only visitor. I didn’t want to leave. As I sat, I thought, it doesn’t matter how much money you have in the bank. It doesn’t matter what kind of car you drive or how big your house is. What matters, is a connection and the love and memories we make in our often too short time here.
Don McCoy
The Journey of a thousand miles 