By Scott Reddoch
I arrived at Touro Hospital in New Orleans late one afternoon after a two-hour ambulance ride. I had spent four months in other hospitals and the last one surely would have killed me. I was happy to be somewhere different.
The brief moment I was outdoors told me it must have been spring. I could tell I was back in New Orleans. There’s a damp, humid air there that can’t be replicated, and most people don’t know this, but it has a distinct scent. This was another chapter in my recovery. Doctors had discovered I could communicate, which made me a candidate for rehabilitation.
I got there in pretty bad shape. I was completely paralyzed at that point and could only move my eyes.
Paralysis robs you of lots of things. Dignity is one of them.
For four months, I had lived in a culture of disrespect. Nurses and staff just talked at me. They weren’t concerned with how I felt. I was invisible, or worse, something that had been discarded. They talked about me while I was right there. They talked about their weekend plans. I was a body to manage, not a person. The only people who treated me like I still existed were my family and friends.
That all changed the moment I got to Touro.
The nurse who admitted me got down on her knee and looked me in the eyes when she spoke to me. Not at my chart. Not at the equipment. Not at my mom. At me.
She told me I was in good hands.
Before leaving, she asked, “Do you need anything else from me?”
I signaled no.
Then she asked, “Do you promise?”
My mother said that moment flipped a switch in me. I felt an enormous weight lift off my chest. A warmth spread through me and I wanted to give her a great big hug, but I couldn’t move. I hadn’t been seen as me for three months. Nurses didn’t care about me before. Now I had hope for the first time.
Her name is Morgan. She was in her twenties and she was the most important person in the world that day. I just remember her asking if I promised I didn’t need anything. I didn’t have any other care like it. Everyone I came in contact with at Touro was friendly and encouraging, but Morgan was the one who got down on her knee first.
We’re still in touch. I have her email address and we’re friends on Facebook. I send her a message about once a month. I credit that moment with sparking the fire that still burns inside me today. The kindness Morgan showed me has multiplied again and again.
Getting down on her knee didn’t cost her anything. Looking me in the eyes instead of talking over me took no extra time. Asking if I promised I didn’t need anything was just three more words. But those three words told me I was still a person to show kindness to.
Most people don’t make you feel invisible on purpose. They’re just busy. Distracted. They talk at you instead of to you.
Morgan showed me that the smallest acts of kindness can change everything. She didn’t fix my paralysis. She didn’t give me my voice back. She just got down on her knee and looked me in the eyes like I mattered.
And I did.
You have people in your life right now who feel invisible. They’re right in front of you but you’re looking past them. Get down on your knee. Look them in the eyes. Ask if they need anything.
Then ask if they promise.
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