I always thing of my Grandma Ruth on days when I’m sick. Growing up, her house was my second home – the place I went before school, after school and on nights when my parents broke free for a few hours. And on days when I was sick, her house was extra special. By the time I arrived, she had always transformed the couch into a bed, placing a sheet over the cushions and adding extra pillows. The coffee table would be moved closer for easy access to drinks and medicine. And most of all, she would have made the mental shift from grandmother / retired-RN to on the clock, nurse of the year. The day would unfold with whatever could best soothe the illness, but also a pummeling of questions to keep up-to-date on my status, constant monitoring and more than anything else, a constant flow of liquids. Hydration, she would always insist, was the crucial key. A new glass of water or juice would be followed by an “I’m sorry, it’s just the nurse in me,” followed by a stare that wouldn’t cease until the glass was emptied.

And this week, probably fifteen years past the last time she took care of me on a sick day, I’ve thought about her every day as I moaned and whined (as my mom tells me) through pink eye. Side-note: I have a new and deep sympathy for anyone who has had to suffer with this scarlet, oozing ordeal. It slices you to reveal your true level of vanity as you deal with putrid things happening with your eyes and the fact that you are embarrassed to be seen by basically anyone. And then, just when you think your eye is back to normal, the pair tag team you and the other one decides to go pink too.

Taking care of others is definitely a certain kind of talent. And in these situations, she was the best. I missed her this week and I am willing to bet that for every sick day for the rest of my life, she will linger a little closer, whisper a little stronger.