I can't remember their names, but my thoughts and prayers are with them

It took four steps to reach the door of the trailer where I spent my first three years as a writing teacher at Diamond Middle School and not being one to miss an opportunity, I told the students those were the first steps they needed to take on the road to being the best writers they could possibly be.

My trailer was located directly between the rest of the middle school and the high school gymnasium and one day in the fall of 2000, if memory serves correctly, I watched in amusement as three seventh grade girls, Lydia, Michelle and Stacia, staged a protest about 20 feet from my trailer.

It wasn't school lunches or the principal or anything any teacher did that sparked the girls' activism.

"Free the lemurs!" they chanted.







It was still early in the fall semester and though I barely knew those three at the time, their papers all reflected a keen intelligence, as well as writing skills that were well beyond seventh grade level.  The other students were looking at the three as if they were out of their heads and that was exactly the response they wanted. They were gauging the reaction.

Though nearly 19 years have passed, I recall the plight of the lemurs was a topic they brought up (with me, at least, because they could tell I was enjoying their flight of creativity) for the next week or so.

I hadn't thought about the lemurs since then and to this day I have no idea who was holding them captive.

It took the pandemic to revive the memory.

In about two weeks, it will be four years since I underwent triple-bypass surgery at Freeman. I have always admired the men and women who dedicate their lives to the medical profession and have a deep appreciation for everyone who works in the field from the doctors to the people in housekeeping.

Over the space of a few months, first with the placement of a couple of stents, then with another one and then with the triple bypass that finally took care of the problem, I had a chance to see these professionals in action.

I listened as they were berated by patients who seemed to think the world revolved around them and never betrayed a hint of anger. I watched as they maintained their smiles from the beginning of their shifts to the time when they could finally clock out.







When I first entered the hospital for the triple bypass, I was forced to wait for a week to have the operation until the blood thinner I had been taking following the placement of the stents was out of my system. During that week, I had to remain flat on my back. It was difficult, but it gave me time to watch and listen carefully to everything that was going on around me.

I paid close attention to the reactions of medical professionals to everything from routine questions to code blues.

Though the memories are clear in my mind, the names have completely vanished. For nearly two weeks, these people devoted themselves to me and to the other Freeman patients, but I can't remember any of their names.

Except one.

A ray of sunshine following my operation was the discovery that one of the physical therapists whose job was to get me in condition to leave the hospital was Lydia, the same girl who fought for lemur liberation at Diamond Middle School.

I was in pain and not sure I could do what Lydia and the other therapist was asking me to do, which was to take progressively longer walks during the recovery process.

Somehow each day I made it through the walk, which always left me at the brink of exhaustion, and on the next to last day, Lydia told me I would take my final test the next day and walk up steps.

I was having a hard time imagining doing it, but I did not want to disappoint her or the other therapist and I was ready to go home. I had never gone this long without writing anything and I was missing it.

It would make for a better ending if I could say that Lydia had me take those steps to recovery and returning to my writing in the same way that she took the steps to my trailer classroom and worked on her writing so many years earlier, but that is not what happened.

When I walked the steps with no difficulty the next day, it was the other therapist who watched and encouraged me and shared in my minor triumph.

I can't remember her name.

For someone who has spent his entire adult life working at two jobs, reporter and teacher, that would seem to demand a good memory for names, I have never had one.

I have thought about that experience these past few weeks as I have listened to the tales of bravery and heroism among medical professionals across the country during this time of COVID-19.

Hopefully, the staffs at Freeman and Mercy and the other medical facilities in this area will never experience the horrors that we have witnessed on news reports, though I am sure if the situation was to come to pass they, like their counterparts in New York, New Jersey, Louisiana and other heavily affected areas, will respond with the same courage and compassion they show every day.

It takes a special kind of person to do what they do.

I can't remember their names, but my thoughts and prayers are with them every day.