Because this is a external link to my site, I have copied the story to this website. I am afraid that, eventually, the newspaper will erase the file, and I want to keep the copy available for my readers. Here it is:
Like every victim of Hurricane Katrina, I can divide my life into two parts -- before and after the storm. This begins as a before-the-storm story.
Two Christmases ago, in the days when St. Bernard Parish was whole, I was a member of a three-person medical practice in Chalmette. It was there, at Chalmette's Lifecare hospital, that I had the opportunity to care for an elderly patient I will call Miss Shirley.
Miss Shirley was a frail woman. She was originally admitted to Chalmette Medical Center in October for pneumonia, but her recovery was slow and she was transferred to Lifecare for prolonged treatment. She had emphysema and a history of stroke, which further compromised her recovery.
She was on my rounds twice a week, and she always greeted me with the same question: When will I go home? Though she was receiving aggressive treatment, Miss Shirley, like many chronically ill elderly people, was having great difficulty shaking off her infection. Still, she didn't look that bad, and I was optimistic that a month's stay would do the trick.
The weeks dragged on. October yielded to November, and Miss Shirley began asking if she would be out by Thanksgiving. At first I thought so, but her progress was very uneven. One week she seemed to move ahead, then the next she would slip back. Thanksgiving passed, and she was still in the hospital.
As often as I saw Miss Shirley, I never saw any family. She had no children and was long since widowed. She had taped pictures of a niece and nephew on the wall next to an image of Jesus. Other than that, her room was devoid of personal affects. There was not even a Bible. I suspected Ms. Shirley was very poor and very alone.
But she looked forward to being home for Christmas. It was all she asked about, every visit.
It was my turn to do the rounds at Lifecare on Christmas Eve. Of course Miss Shirley was there and not well enough to go home any time soon. I entered the room, did a perfunctory exam, and then told her I was sorry she was not going home. I knew how disappointed she was, I said, but I did not see any alternative.
She did an odd thing. Rather than speaking, she motioned with her finger for me to move closer. When I leaned directly over her, she kissed me on the cheek and said, "Have a Merry Christmas, doctor, and thank you for coming."
I left the room vaguely feeling that I had been stood on my head. I was the doctor and felt I was the one who was supposed to do the caring. I had everything, the education, a lovely home, good wife and beautiful children. She had nothing, not even her health. Yet she was wishing me happiness.
Then I realized I was mistaken in thinking she had nothing. She did have one thing to give me -- her caring. And she had given it, freely.
In that moment, after our brief encounter, I came to grips with one of the most important beliefs I have. There is no one who is so rich and able that he cannot be given a gift. And there is no one so poor and helpless that she has nothing to give.
Miss Shirley left the hospital in January and died later the same year. I never took care of her again. Since that time I, too, have learned what it means to have nothing.
After Katrina took my home and medical practice, I spent weeks living with relatives with all I owned in the world sitting in two duffel bags on a bedroom floor. I bought a new house, started a new job and uprooted my family from a home I never wanted to leave. My wife and I have had many hard moments, but through it all I hold that core belief, taught to me by a special patient: You always have something to give. No matter how much you think you have lost.