Open
Page 8
Chapter 8
AT HER NEXT break, Hope poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the break room table. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Saul and his turtle story. And once again, it was happening – words were pulling together in her brain, forming a poem. She grabbed a pen from her pocket and started to write on her coffee napkin.
Saul’s Hope
a burning desire
to start over new
help right some wrongs
to my heart be true
desperate attempts,
time and again
but broken regret
was all that I found
the flicker of faith
demand I push through
keep myself open
to what my heart knew
then one tiny miracle
turned everything right
the past is forgotten
Hope gives new life
She stared down at the words, a smile slowly spreading across her face. Glancing at her watch to make sure she had time, she poured her coffee down the sink and made a beeline to the ICU. In Will’s room, she marched to the closed blinds and opened them. Sunshine poured in, bringing warmth and light into every inch of the room.
Connie peered into the room and shot Hope a stern look. “I thought we were clear on the blinds,” she said.
“We are,” Hope nodded. “It’s clear to me that you have to do what you think is best for your patient, which I know means that the blinds will be closed the minute I leave this room. And that’s fine, Connie. I understand. But Will is my friend. I know him better than anyone else here. I know that he needs sunshine, so I’ve got to do what I know is right for him too. I’ve only got a few minutes that I can visit with him each day, but as long as I’m here, the blinds will be open.”
Narrowing her eyes, Connie shook her head and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Hope sat in the guest chair next to Will and rested her hand on his. “Hey Will,” she said. “I don’t have much time right now, but I want you to know that I’m thinking about you and praying for you. I know Katie must miss you a lot. She needs her daddy. Please, Will… put up whatever kind of fight you have to and come back to her.” She paused, then added, “And come back to me, too.”
Hope wasn’t sure, but for a split second, it looked like Will’s eyelids had moved.
Just a bit.
“Oh, and I’ve got your coat,” she told him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m still wearing it every day. It smells great, Will. Just like you. It’s like you’re giving me a hug every time I put it on. And I really like the way that feels.”
She let a moment of quiet pass, then told him goodbye and promised to come back soon. As she stepped out of his room, she found the unit nurses clustered around the desk at the nurse’s station. Several disapproving glances were shot Hope’s way, but she held her head high as left the ICU.
• • •
WHEN HOPE RETURNED to the CCU, Marjorie pulled her into the break room.
“What’s up?” Hope asked.
Marjorie held up the napkin with the poem, Saul’s Hope, that she had written earlier that day. “Did you write this?”
Hope blushed, mortified that she had left the poem on the table for anyone to see. No one, aside from her mother and Jason had ever read her poetry, and only one of them had liked it.
“Did you write it?” Marjorie asked again. “You did, didn’t you? This is your handwriting, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Hope admitted.
“I didn’t know you could write poetry. I don’t know who Saul is, and I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s really pretty. You have a way with words.”
A smile spread across Hope’s face. “You think so?”
“I know so. I’ve been reading poetry since I was a child and I’ve always wished I could write it, but I just can’t. Not even a ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ kind of poem. I can’t even write haiku, and those are so simple, there’s even a formula to follow.”
Hope chuckled.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you have a gift,” Marjorie continued. “I know this is just one short poem, but if you’ve got enough talent to write something like this on a coffee napkin during break, then you should be writing other stuff, and sharing it with the world. Have you ever considered blogging?”
“Not really. I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Hope said.
“Trust me, you don’t have to be a computer genius. I’m fifty-eight years old and I have a blog. It’s kind of like my scrapbook, just an online version of it. Think of it as a diary or a journal of sorts, but one you can choose to keep anonymous. If you write about anything that happens here at work, just do it in general terms with no names or identifying characteristics. You remember all that confidentiality stuff from nursing school and hospital orientation? All those rules apply when blogging.”
“So what do I have to do to get a blog?”
“You know what… it’s so easy, let’s just start one for you now.”
Marjorie sat down at the break room computer and opened a browser. Hope watched over her shoulder as she navigated to a blog site, made a few more mouse clicks, filled out a short form, then arrived at a page with an empty field.
“We have to name your blog,” she told Hope. “Any ideas?”
“Ummm… how about ‘An Aspiring Poet Nurse’s Blog?’”
“Oh come on,” Marjorie scolded her. “You can do better than that. First of all, you’re not an aspiring poet. You are a poet. Secondly, your blog deserves a name that’s catchy and creative. It needs to be witty and inviting; something that will show people that what you have to say is worth reading.”
“I don’t know. What about… something to do with staying open? Like we talked about the other day?”
Marjorie’s fingers clicked across the keyboard.
Open to the World: The Life and Times of a Poet Nurse
“What do you think?”
“I like it,” said Hope. “But what in the world do I do next?”
Marjorie stood up and pointed to the seat. “You put your butt here, and your fingers on the keyboard. And you type. Tell your story. Write a poem, or ask a hypothetical question, or just talk about your day. You say what’s on your heart and mind. In fact, why don’t you use the poem you wrote today as your first post? I think it would make for a great debut post.”
Hope shrugged. “I could give it a try.”
She began typing.
In the hospital cafeteria today, I met a gentleman whose wife is a patient on the oncology floor. When he learned my name is Hope, he mentioned that he once had a pet turtle by the same name. Then he told me her story…
Hope spent the rest of her break writing about her conversation with Saul, then added her poem, Saul’s Promise.
A burning desire
to start over new…
At the bottom of the webpage, Hope found a button, which read ‘publish.’ Her heart skipped a beat as she clicked it, knowing that her writing would be visible to the whole world. It was both thrilling and scary at the same time. After she clicked the ‘logout’ button, she closed the browser and returned to work.