Working at the same hospital as my father always felt like a quiet gift. We never talked about it much, and we certainly didn't brag about it. It was comforting that, amidst long days filled with difficult conversations and emotional burdens, someone who knew me better than anyone else was somewhere in the same building.
My father worked at that hospital for almost thirty years. He was a nurse known for his calm demeanor, composure, and gentle humor, which he used to soothe worried patients and families. People trusted him. New nurses sought his advice. Doctors respected his experience. He took pride in his work, not because it attracted attention, but because it allowed him to care for others in a meaningful way.
I worked in social services, helping families navigate diagnoses, paperwork, and decisions for which no one is ever fully prepared. Our roles were different, and our schedules rarely overlapped. We didn't plan our interactions. But we'd occasionally pass each other in the hallway, usually between meetings or rushing between shifts.
When we did, we hugged.
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