(The following entry was written by Cathy Self, Sr. V.P. of the Baptist Healing Trust)

“…I do not want any one to read my book
carelessly. I have suffered too much grief in setting down these memories. Six
years have already passed since my friend went away from me, with his sheep. If
I try to describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him. To
forget a friend is sad. Not every one has had a friend. And if I forget him, I
may become like the grown-ups who are no longer interested in anything but
figures…” from The Little Prince”
by Antoine de Saint Exupéry.

   To sit and listen to anyone who is living into their 7^th,
8^th, or 9^th decade is to receive a most precious gift of immeasurable
memories. Among our board members is one who served in WWW II and who speaks of
the memories of landing at Peleliu as though it were yesterday. He recalls with
vivid description the feeling of the concussion of the howitzer as he fired
back in defense on the rugged beach that early morning so long ago…

   My father-in-law could do the same in describing his days in
the Pacific as a member of the SeaBees, digging and preparing safe landing
spaces for our pilots. His stories were brought to life with sound and color
and his description of the incessant expectation of air and land raids by the
enemy. I can almost feel his heart beating in my own chest as I write these
words.

   Our memories are the book of our lives which, according to
the Little Prince, must not be read carelessly. Much is devoted and sacrificed
in the writing of one’s life-book. Yet in our rush to serve others, how often
do we simply breeze past the pages of the life-book before us? As care-givers
we are problem-solvers at heart and our interactions are often dictated by the
primary purpose of discovering, analyzing, and then fixing the problems that come
to our attention. Our listening is usually clouded with forming a response or
spinning off into answers and solutions. While clinically we must be excellent problem solvers, it
seems that we must also be excellent
listeners, not just for the parts to a puzzle to be solved but listening to the
pages of life-books as shared in the stories and memories of those we serve.
 I recently rediscovered a significant story from my own
life-book, significant because it mirrors much of the purpose and meaning of my
time at the bedside. It is a poem written as only a 12-year can write. His name
was Stephen and he lived with the challenges of muscular dystrophy. I remember
that we had daily sessions of exercise, positioning, and stretching all laden
with pain and great effort on his part, heart-break and devotion from within
me. I share his words just as he wrote them 34 years ago:

“I have a physical
therapist. Her name is Kathy Stephens. I like her very much, But someday I’m
gonna get even. When she comes into my room each day, She’s like a breath of
Spring. But behind that lovely smile of hers is a plot to make me strain. She
always tries to push me, Just a little further more, and I try hard to do what
she says, tho I know it’ll make me sore. She pulls my leggs, and twists my
feet, and makes me lay out straight. I clinch my fists and gritt my teeth and
think ‘Lady just you waite.’ But I bet she does the same things, To Tom, or
Dick, or Laurie. But when I’m through for the day, She looks at me and says ‘if
I hurt you Steve, I’m sorry.’ Then somehow the pain and the strain all becomes
worthwhile, when she gives me that gentel touch and that most sincere smile.
For I know someday I’ll walk again, and I’ll be able to say, I could not have
done it, if Kathy Stevens hadn’t paved the way.” Written by Stephen
Frederico, Nov. 3^rd, 1973.

 As I re-read his words again, I wonder what I could have
said that would make Stephen believe (falsely) that he would walk again. I
think I surely must have been careful to not create impossible dreams or
illusions as he and I worked through our daily sessions together. What I believe
is that my very presence was a sharing of his life-book, short thought it may
have been. In that sharing perhaps Stephen experienced hope and affirmation. Is
that not, after all, among the best gifts we bring in our care giving? Are
shared hope and affirmation perhaps at the core of healing? I don’t know for
sure, but I think it may be so. I treasure this page from Stephen’s and my
life-books – may you find your own life-books filled to overflowing.