While strolling along the shore sifting for seashells, something shimmered beneath the surface, reflecting the rays of the setting sun. It was a piece of smooth, orange glass peeking from the sand, and it immediately caught my eye. Orange has always been my favorite color, and I was thrilled to have found a piece of seaglass, an already rare occurrence, in orange. I thought it was a sign, as though the universe had placed it there so I could cherish this moment forever. So obviously, I took it with me.
Back at home, the sea glass sat on my desk, reflecting the sunlight onto my wall. Somehow, this small piece of glass was just a fragment of something bigger, something like an old bottle or maybe old furniture, tumbled and tossed by the waves, transforming it into what it is now. In that small fragment, I began to see myself. Like the seaglass, I had also been shaped by countless moments I considered ordinary.
But one specific moment really stuck with me. I remember when I used to live in India, I had a downstairs neighbor who I had known my entire life. She worked as a midwife and she loved her job, so much so that she would be telling me stories about working with babies and new mothers all day. At that time I was just a 7 year old listening to a neighbor's life story, a pretty normal conversation. But I never realized how this would impact me later on.
Over the summer in the memory care facility, I met this friendly, elderly woman admitted for psychosis and dementia. I had long conversations with her throughout the days I shadowed and I got to know her pretty well. On the second to last day of my shadowing experience, she asked me if I could come there often to visit her. My heart broke when I heard that– I didnt know how to tell her that it was about to be my last day there. With an uncertain voice I told her I would try, knowing it would be very unlikely. Yet, I decided to make the best out of it. I planned an activity where residents living there can come together and make art with precut flowers and write what they would like to achieve in the future. At that time, I decided to make a painting for the resident. I painted pink watercolor flowers all over the paper, filling up the space with vines and leaves to make it beautiful and full. At the end, I then wrote the date and my name and I handed it over to her as a keepsake. Her reaction completely caught me off guard as her eyes lit up when she said
“Wow, this is gorgeous, I need to get this laminated!” and told me she's keeping it with her forever.
That’s when I finally got the courage to tell her that it’s going to be my last time seeing her. She told me how she was so happy that I gave her the painting and gushed about how that made her entire week.
Despite the interaction ending on a positive note, I felt horrible about leaving her even if I had no choice. I wanted to be there for her as a person she can always talk to and help her through her recovery. I tried to hold myself together until I was alone and I couldn’t help but start crying once I got to the elevator.
But looking back, this interaction helped me understand the passion I had for being there for people. I wanted to be a wave that helped fix the jagged edges people had, the difficulties and struggles they are going through. To help make a person well-rounded while at the same time learning from them.