Eleven years ago, I moved to Richmond to get a Master’s degree in Social Work at VCU. I didn’t know many Social Workers, in fact I only discovered a close family friend was a Social Worker when I shared my plans to apply for the MSW program at VCU. While Social Workers never seemed particularly smart or glamourous in movies or TV shows, I hoped that it would be something I was good at it, that I would enjoy it, and that someone would pay me a reasonable amount of money to do it.
In college, I studied Art History. I loved surrounding myself with beauty and unraveling the stories these tangible objects told. Analyzing art taught me how to truly observe and search for meaning. While I loved admiring art, I realized that art tells the story of people and since I had no intention to get a Ph.D it made sense to switch gears to focus on the stories of people directly. After spending a year in the shoes of a Special Education teacher, I knew the classroom was not for me. What if I got tired of school politics? I needed a career that could weather a lot of changes without getting another degree.
For me, Social Work was never a direct calling, but instead seemed like the last door open after contemplating an academic career in the arts, teaching, and the many different facets of “mental health professionals.” During grad school I certainly liked my classmates and professors and I felt excited to be a Social Worker, but I could not fully grasp what the field would entail or where it would take me.
Eleven years later, Social Work took me to a bittersweet story of a gifted “old lady” purse. Without risking that I forgot this moment, it seems fitting to try on my former Art Historian hat to admire the layers of beauty in this object.
It started with a call Friday afternoon. It had been a busy day and my desk was filled with a mountain of paperwork; I was annoyed to get another call once again interrupting my train of thought. It was a coworker, telling me the husband of a recently deceased patient was outside and asked for me. I walked briskly and looked outside to see his big truck parked at our back door.
I was struck by his smile that day. I met him and his wife in 2021 when COVID masking precautions were well-established, and I realized I never saw him without a mask. He had the kind of smile that just radiated the goodness of his heart. He wiped sweat off his forehead explaining he just returned from the dump. He decided it was time to start going through his belongings; one the many tasks he put off when he donned the role of his wife’s caregiver. I fell into my old role of nagging him to make sure he rested and asked if someone from church could help on his next dump trip.
He was never one to talk much about his needs, and instead reached into the backseat to point to several brand-new leather purses sealed in plastic wrapping. He said, “You know my wife loved this purse. She carried it every day, so I bought it in every color. She didn’t have a chance to use these ones and I want you to have one. Carry it with you and you will be carrying her with you too. She loved you, she loved all of you at the dialysis center.”
Who would have guessed a dated brown leather purse could be so beautiful? That afternoon when I got home, I took off the packaging and Nadia carried it around the room beaming with pride. It brought back warm memories of many conversations with my patient; she loved hearing about Nadia. She would love to see the joy her purse brought my little girl.
After two long years of working in healthcare during a pandemic and a decade of Social Work practice, I realize it is these moments that keep me in the field. It is knowing that my seemingly insignificant conversations with an elderly woman and her husband were in fact meaningful. It reminds me of how important it is to not simply do my assessments, but to transform the tedious tasks into opportunities to engage and connect with people; to truly walk along the painful path of chronic illness and end-of-life care.
I still miss my patient. I miss stopping in her dialysis station to hear about her daytrips spent antiquing or talk about her menu for the upcoming family meal on Sunday. I miss her stories of finding love in her second marriage and living her best life in retirement. Up until the pandemic, she was still taking an annual girl’s trip to Myrtle Beach. She was a woman who knew how to live until, at last, she didn’t.
Rest in peace, dear patient. I promise to carry you with me.
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