Dorothy

Every Friday afternoon of every week, I find myself walking swiftly across a cold, frigid, white tile floor signing my name in a guest log. The pen attached to the guest log seems to waver in my hand all the more with each passing week. I enter the same five-digit code at the security checkpoint; I look for the same room number. Every Friday. Every Friday, I walk into that room and talk. There is no response but I know that she is listening. Ordinarily, a person would make some conversation, would share their day, would talk. I believe this woman that I visit every Friday, is not ordinary, but that she is extraordinary.

When I was about 8 year’s olds, I remember going to the hospital to get a blood test. I remember hearing the beeping of machines. I remember seeing a person being hastily brought in on a stretcher. I remember deciding at that moment that I hated hospitals. I had a false conception in my mind that hospitals inevitably meant death. As I got older, I came to realize that a hospital is more than just an abode for the dying. I came to realize that a hospital is where new lives are given form, where babies are born. I learned that it is a place where many hard working and caring doctors, nurses, and volunteers, spend their time. As soon as I starting seeing hospitals for what they really were, I wanted to be exactly like those doctors and nurses. When I hit 15 years of age, I was able to begin volunteering for a local hospice that supports the elderly through terminal illnesses. Before starting, I was trained to speak empathetically. I was told to forget any deaths that I may have to mourn during my volunteering experience as soon as I walked out of the hospital doors. I remember the trainer telling me to not get attached to any of my patients. With my most recent patient,

that has been very hard to do.

Before I first met Dorothy, about 5 months ago, I was informed that she had a cancerous brain tumor that could not be removed. Because of this she also suffers from dementia, which is a gradual deterioration of mental functioning. After this description it is only common to expect a very dull, lifeless person. However, Dorothy was anything but that. She was the epitome of life. Every week that I would go visit her it would seem that she had a new fundraiser or community service project in mind. I loved spending those Friday afternoons with Dorothy, helping her make her poster for her various fundraisers, or helping her plan out an event. I loved seeing the happiness and glow in Dorothy’s eyes that came from helping the community. Even if she was just donating an old pair of socks, she would do it with love, with care. She would do it for the community.

I still take the long suspenseful walk to Dorothy’s room every Friday; and there is no response but I know that she is listening. Ordinarily, a person would make some conversation, would share their day, would talk. I believe this woman that I visit every Friday, is not ordinary, but she is extraordinary. Her brain tumor has caused her dementia to worsen to such an extent that she has forgotten how to talk. She has forgotten.

Some Fridays it will seem as though she remembers me, the times that we have shared, while some Fridays she will look at me blankly and cower with fear if I come too close. But sometimes, with the quick glance of an eye, I see the same glow in Dorothy’s eyes that she used to get when she would be doing something for the community, for others. Dorothy had always told me “live for others, not yourself”. After taking her advice to heart, I have learned that being a more involved member of the community is not only helpful to society, but also extremely self-satisfying.

At the end of the day, my community service makes me feel as though I have accomplished something, made someone’s day brighter, thought bigger than myself. So thank you Dorothy for teaching me to think about others. I realize that Dorothy will be leaving me soon, she only has a prognosis of one month, however because of her, I will always believe that anyone can do the smallest of things with great love. Those smallest of things can make the biggest of impacts, this I believe.