Their expressions shifted from focus to confusion. “There wasn’t a male nurse assigned to your room,” one of them said gently. “Your care team was all female.”
I laughed at first, assuming there’d been a mix-up.
But they were certain. They suggested stress, medication, exhaustion—reasonable explanations. I nodded, accepted their answer, and went home with an unease I couldn’t quite explain.
Healing often leaves behind questions we never get to resolve, and I told myself not to linger on it. Weeks later, while unpacking my hospital bag, my fingers brushed against something folded in the bottom pocket. A small piece of paper, creased and worn.
I unfolded it slowly. Don’t lose hope. You’re stronger than you think.
No name. No date. Just those words.
I sat there for a long time, holding the note, replaying those quiet nights in my mind. I couldn’t say for certain where it came from. Maybe a staff member who never officially appeared on my chart.
Maybe someone who noticed more than vitals and medications. Or maybe—just maybe—it was something I needed so badly that my mind gave it shape. In the end, the explanation mattered less than the result.
That note now rests in my drawer, a quiet reminder that encouragement often arrives when we are most vulnerable, sometimes without answers or labels. That strength doesn’t always announce itself with grand moments. Sometimes it shows up softly—through a calm voice, a steady presence, or a message that finds you exactly when you need it most.
