My primary care physician called me out of the blue Friday afternoon and asked if I had a minute. My mind immediately raced through days, weeks, children, etc, trying to remember if any of us had any unresolved lab work or other tests that might have elicited this phone call.
But she quickly assured me that this was not an emergency. Rather, she wanted to know if I would write a letter to an adult son for her. It was his birthday, and a family member whom both had admired had recently died. She wanted to share with her son how much this person had inspired and empowered her, too, only she couldn't translate her feelings into words. Could I come to her office that afternoon?
"That would a make a nice birthday present for him, don't you think?" she had asked.
Not knowing her son or her relationship with him, I could only speculate, but it certainly sounded like a fine present to me. Now, I was hoping to finish this latest round of editing Visage this weekend, yet, of course, I would meet with her, since she had given so freely of her time to me, not quite two years ago, when I was in the midst of a medical crisis.
And so I sat with her and typed notes as she grieved and reminisced. Then I went home and took all evening organizing and arranging pages of random thoughts into logical points. I spent my Saturday morning writing and rewriting the letter, using as much of her vocabulary as possible, until I could hear her Polish accent in my ears. I never wanted her son to doubt that she did not write the letter because, in my mind, she had. Every sentiment had poured directly from her heart.
I returned to her office Saturday afternoon. She loved the letter! She did ask if I could include additional detail into some of her memories, which I did that night, along with, instead of treating the commemoration as a mere letter, adding a title, as well.
By the time I left her office, she was already wondering if her son would mind if she could frame it and hang it in her waiting area so everyone could it it. Oh, and when her eight-year-old daughter entered the room, she introduced me as a famous writer and showed her a copy of Bryony.
Yes, she compensated me for the job, but that isn't why this particular assignment thrilled me. I cannot begin to express the humbling honor of sharing a piece of someone's family history, from a mother to a son and as that mother to her son, in a very intimate and personal way. For her to open up in that fashion implied a high confidence and trust in my abilities and discretion.
Definitely, this was one heck of a way to end a grueling week.
But she quickly assured me that this was not an emergency. Rather, she wanted to know if I would write a letter to an adult son for her. It was his birthday, and a family member whom both had admired had recently died. She wanted to share with her son how much this person had inspired and empowered her, too, only she couldn't translate her feelings into words. Could I come to her office that afternoon?
"That would a make a nice birthday present for him, don't you think?" she had asked.
Not knowing her son or her relationship with him, I could only speculate, but it certainly sounded like a fine present to me. Now, I was hoping to finish this latest round of editing Visage this weekend, yet, of course, I would meet with her, since she had given so freely of her time to me, not quite two years ago, when I was in the midst of a medical crisis.
And so I sat with her and typed notes as she grieved and reminisced. Then I went home and took all evening organizing and arranging pages of random thoughts into logical points. I spent my Saturday morning writing and rewriting the letter, using as much of her vocabulary as possible, until I could hear her Polish accent in my ears. I never wanted her son to doubt that she did not write the letter because, in my mind, she had. Every sentiment had poured directly from her heart.
I returned to her office Saturday afternoon. She loved the letter! She did ask if I could include additional detail into some of her memories, which I did that night, along with, instead of treating the commemoration as a mere letter, adding a title, as well.
By the time I left her office, she was already wondering if her son would mind if she could frame it and hang it in her waiting area so everyone could it it. Oh, and when her eight-year-old daughter entered the room, she introduced me as a famous writer and showed her a copy of Bryony.
Yes, she compensated me for the job, but that isn't why this particular assignment thrilled me. I cannot begin to express the humbling honor of sharing a piece of someone's family history, from a mother to a son and as that mother to her son, in a very intimate and personal way. For her to open up in that fashion implied a high confidence and trust in my abilities and discretion.
Definitely, this was one heck of a way to end a grueling week.
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