Alex Kim ‘18
Contributing Writer
Over the years of working as a nurse assistant, I have had the honor of serving over three thousand patients. I always tried my best to devote my attention to each and every one of the patients that I helped and to remember them, but inevitably, their presence eventually diminished from my mind.
But not all.
There is a patient I still remember from years ago – her gestures, her voice, even the color of her eyes – they will forever remain as a part of my journey through life. She was a fragile elderly woman with congestive heart failure, along with several health issues, who frequently visited our inpatient unit to receive care.
“Psst,” I heard behind me as I updated her patient information board during a shift change. I looked over my shoulders and saw a delicate and gentle patient signaling me to come closer. “Yes?” I answered as I walked next to her bed. She asked, “Do you want this?” referring to a mysterious object in her hand. She carefully unraveled a brown hospital napkin to reveal an oatmeal cookie. I was appreciative, but due to our policies and my lack of desire, I told her that we were not allowed to take patients’ foods and thanked her.
Her name was Betty. She practiced a ritual of offering – from cookies to puddings, and even half of her mashed potatoes. The thought of taking food from her made me feel bad, as she was very skinny and weak, but by the third or fourth time she asked, I was obliged to accept.
As I munched on the “special of the day” she had prepared for me, we started a small conversation. Out of curiosity, I politely asked what motivated her to feed me, and she simply answered, “You always look hungry.”
Later, I learned that her son and husband had passed away recently, leaving her soul famished. She no longer had a son or husband to feed, and I realized that when I accepted her food, I was doing more than taking food from her; I was actually giving back. Before I even took the first bite, our souls began to fill.
The difficult yet simple act of looking past my own inhibition and accepting Betty’s kindness nourished the both of us. From this, I believe there is more than one type of hunger that we all live with, and can be filled with not only food, but also with humility, kindness and empathy.
Thank you, Betty. I never got a chance to say good-bye to you, but I hope you can see this.
There is, and will always be, a part of me you filled. I learned to be aware of others’ hunger, and that the line between giving and receiving is blurred. Next time we meet, it’s on me.
