She was in her eighties, but after speaking with her and her husband for only a few minutes I knew she had a frustrated twenty-five year old soul.
“I’ve been depressed,” she admitted, almost apologetically. “I just don’t feel right. ”
It was a story I’ve heard a thousand times.
He lives in an easy familiarity with hearth and home, yard and garden.
She longs for travel, the open road, activity anywhere but here.
He turns his tanned, weathered, wind swept face to the sun, and is content.
She dreams a young girl’s dreams of the stars, and is not.
Both are still sharp, intact, cognizant of the march of time but nonconformists as only sweet, fabulously feisty eighty year olds can be.
“I think some of it is the medicine,” she says. He agrees.
So do I.
In an octogenarian, it’s always at least partially the medicine.
“Bring me the updated medication list from home,” I said. Of course, it was sitting on the kitchen table. “I think I know how we can help you feel better.”
She smiled, hopeful.
He smiled, relieved.
Because he loves her, you see.
He looked into my eyes, smiled a genuine sun splashed smile, gripped my hand, and shook it.
“Thank you, doctor. Thank you.”
Some days, my patients give me a marvelous gift.
They help me rediscover my purpose.
I give them what little I can.
They give me the gift of now.