Cherish the Gift

It was a perfect autumn day in St. Petersburg, Florida. The year was 1999, but I still remember that day’s sparkly blue sky. I was driving down a busy street, peering at the signs to locate my destination. Finally I spotted the nursing home, a two-story concrete structure, grey and uninviting. I took a deep breath, parked and walked to the entrance.

Entering the small lobby, I was overwhelmed by the nauseating smell of stale urine. To reach the front desk, I had to weave through a jumble of wheelchairs, some holding slouched bodies, others supporting patients who called out and reached to touch me as I walked by.

“Can you please tell me which is Abby Butler’s room?” I asked the woman at the desk.

For many years I had sidestepped volunteer activities like this, being too busy with my medical practice and with raising my family.

But my pastor suggested that I visit a nursing-home resident named Abby, saying, “She would really love to meet you, since she’s also a doctor. I think she’s even in your specialty.”

I didn’t feel I could refuse and was curious to know her story, so I agreed to go.

Waiting for the elevator, I covered my nose to block the smell, muttering, “How can she live in this place?”

Abby, I discovered, shared a double room on the second floor. A large woman, she sat propped up in bed, her beaming face peering from behind the trapeze that hung in front of her. She looked to be in her late forties—younger than I’d expected. Her roommate, a loud, elderly lady with dementia, lay in the far bed by the window.

After some formalities, Abby and I began chatting. She told me that years earlier, just after completing her radiology residency and starting her first job, she’d gone on vacation with her husband and had suffered a serious bike accident. The resulting spinal-cord injury had left her paralyzed below the chest.

She talked only briefly about the years following the accident, but alluded to mental-health problems, now improved, as well as to family and marriage tensions, and ultimately a divorce. She never returned to work.

Listening as Abby spoke, I realized how differently her medical career might have gone in our current era. With teleradiology and other advances, she most likely could have returned to her profession.

But I was awed by Abby’s gracious acceptance of her circumstances. She blamed no one, laughed easily and was curious about everything, asking many questions about my family, my faith, my friends and my travels. We talked about her medical specialty, diagnostic radiology, and how it compared to my work as a radiation oncologist. When I told her about my plans to transition from radiation oncology to family medicine, she asked a torrent of questions.

Abby mentioned that she had no family in the area, and that her outings were limited to doctors’ visits via a wheelchair-accessible van. I made inquires and learned that I would be permitted to take her outside for some fresh air. When I let Abby know, she was thrilled and ready to go.

To prepare for these trips, the staff used a mechanized lift to ease Abby from her bed and into her wheelchair. At first, our outings were no more than a brief roll along the front sidewalk. But gradually we started venturing further—to the Chinese restaurant across the street. Pushing Abby’s heavy wheelchair across that street (a bustling four-lane thoroughfare) was a challenge. Still, we made it safely across every time—and we greatly enjoyed those lunches.

Though Abby’s contacts and resources were shockingly limited, her interests were wide-ranging. She relished finding useful information for me—for example, travel tips for trips I was planning. In those days personal computers weren’t yet universally available, and certainly not in this nursing home. Abby would request travel guides by phone, cut out maps and photographs from magazines and triumphantly provide me with a folder of her findings.

One day, I shared Abby’s story with a friend, and together, we decided to do something special for her: We purchased a small computer with dial-up internet access for her bedside.

Internet use and Google searching were just starting to take off—but it was enough to connect Abby to the world via email and resources on the Web. It was exhilarating for Abby—and for us.

On Thanksgiving Day that year, I arranged wheelchair transport so that Abby could join me and my daughters and friends for Thanksgiving dinner at my home. Several guests were vegetarians, prompting a special plant-based Thanksgiving celebration that included leeks baked with goat cheese, asparagus tart, rice vegetable pilaf, eggplant curry, tomato cilantro salad, and more. The day was fun for everyone, but especially for Abby, who was ebullient.

A few days later, Abby developed a urinary-tract infection. Her condition deteriorated rapidly, and she died soon after. My sense of shock and sadness was shared by my family and friends who had just met her.

To my deep regret, I couldn’t attend Abby’s funeral and didn’t get to meet her family or learn more about her story.

Later, though, my friend showed me a letter that Abby had written to her brother the day after our Thanksgiving dinner. In it, Abby shared vivid details about every person there, recounted all the conversations, described in detail every dish served and stressed how much the day had meant to her.

Now, pinned on the bulletin board just above my desk, I keep a handwritten 3″ x 5″ card that Abby gave me all those years ago. On it, in her block printing, are these words:

“Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift: That is why they call it the present.”

Knowing Abby was a privilege. And she taught me that every day is indeed a gift. For that, I will be forever grateful.