She was sitting up in bed when I arrived. I was flustered and emotional. Who wouldn’t be after receiving the dreaded phone call, then a restless night’s sleep, followed by a three-hour drive?
She stopped me in my tracks.
Unaware of my presence, I stood in the doorway watching. I forgot about the hospital smells, those insidious smells of sanitizer and sickness that always seem so alien. Nurses flitted past, their movements hardly registering in my mind.
The frail old lady had an oxygen tube in her nose and tubes disappearing under a bandage into the back of her leathery left hand. Her hair was brushed and pulled back… neat and respectable even here in this sterile place of sickness.
Her face was furrowed with concentration. A pair of reading glasses perched precariously on her nose, her eyes focused on the notepad in front of her. In her right hand she held a black pen, lid carefully placed on top of the pen as always.
She was writing.
The old lady glanced up and saw me, breaking into a smile. The spell broken, I grinned and sauntered over. I hugged her gently, then kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“Hi Mum, how’s it going?”
She looked at me and smiled again, eyes slightly misty. She struggled to place her words in the correct order, but finally managed to say proudly, “Oh, I’m okay. I’m learning to write my name again.”
Then she added, “I’m practicing…” as if this was perfectly normal behavior for a person who had suffered a massive stroke less than 24 hours earlier.
I looked down at the notepad. Sure enough, she had written “My name is Margaret Murray.” dozens of times on the page. Ever the perfectionist, each line concluded with a full stop.
This article is reserved content for Wealthy Web Writer Platinum members. To continue reading this article please log in or become a member today.