Cathy Kinard

Forty-seven years ago, I was a freshman student nurse.  I had just turned eighteen years old.  Harold had been assigned to me as one of my patients.  I spent several days caring for him on A2, which was a general medical floor.

Harold was in his mid-sixties.  I spent time talking to him when I could in between taking care of my other patients.  It was clear that he relished our time together.  Most of the time, he would ask me about my life to limit the time that he had to speak.  As the time progressed, he had become more short of breath and any extra activity exacerbated his air hunger.  He was on oxygen, but it didn’t seem to help.  He had just received the devastating news that his lung cancer had metastasized, and there was nothing more that could be done.

One morning I entered the room and his wife was sitting beside his bed.  He opened his eyes and weakly motioned to his wife to open the drawer of the bedside table.  She reached in the drawer and handed me a silver dollar.

“Harold wants you to have this.  He collected coins for years.  We never had any children.  He wanted you to have one because he appreciates all that you have done for him.  He told me that you should be the first to have one of his silver dollar collection.”

I tried to tell her that I could not accept payment.  She said, “Oh no…this is not a payment.  Harold wants you to always remember him as one of your patients.  You have your whole career ahead of you.  Please---it is a gift that he wants you to have.  Take it and always remember that you made a difference in our lives.”

Harold died within a week. This morning I found Harold’s gift—a 1921 Morgan Silver dollar, minted in Philadelphia.  I had tucked it into my jewelry box long ago. 

Thank you Harold for the reminder.  You were not forgotten.