Sketching Memories

The hot coffee in Teresa’s paper cup has gone cold as it has been enveloped by the morning dew on the blades of grass surrounding her. Her pants grow damp through the hospital blanket she is sitting on, but she doesn’t notice. Her nose is in the little black notebook atop her knees as she scribbles furiously with her tongue poking out of one side of her mouth briefly, retreating and reemerging from the opposite corner.

It’s not until a doctor putting on her white coat hurriedly whooshes past that her concentration is broken. Teresa checks her watch, quickly places the smooth black ribbon in the notebook to keep her place, clamps it shut and rushes to her feet. Visiting hours are starting and she would be the first person checking in at the hospital’s front desk just like she has been every morning for the last six months.

“Good morning, Teresa,” sings one of the nurses cheerily.

“Hey, Linda,” she replies without looking up as she jots her name down on the sign in sheet and moves toward her father’s room.

“¡Hola Teresa! Éste cayó. Necesitas más cinta,” another nurse utters in Spanish while re-fastening a fallen drawing to the foot of her father’s bed frame.

“Gracias, Maria,” Teresa said as she fished out a fresh roll of scotch tape from her purse and taped a new page among the 25 others - each pencil drawing an incredibly detailed and realistic depiction of a different scene.

“Hi, Papi,” she whispered softly before kissing her father’s forehead.

Shortly after, the surgeon entered the room. Unsurprisingly, Teresa was back to sketching in her notebook as she sat in a chair by the window. The surgeon smiled at her upon her usual perch and audibly cleared his throat to get her attention. She looked up, startled.

“Hi, how is he?” she asked.

“After last week’s craniectomy, he’s still largely unresponsive,” the surgeon said. “Since we removed the piece of his skull, the brain swelling has not reduced even minimally. We’re really running out of options given the extent of your father’s injury. Teresa, I’m so sorry to say this but at this point, in my professional opinion, I don’t see your father recovering. You may want to consider taking him off of life support.”

The tears started to build up in Teresa’s eyes, but they were stopped by the growing feeling of anger rising in her throat. “I’ve told you that’s not an option until six months. You said that the first six months are crucial to improve cognitive function after a traumatic brain injury.”

“Teresa, it’s been six months today according to his chart,” the surgeon said solemnly.

She started racking her brain trying to recall how many days she’d spent in this same spot watching her father in the hopes that he’d get better. Then, she began to count the drawings near his feet.

“There are 26,” she said softly. “I’ve been making one drawing every week and you’re right. There are 26. It’s been six months. How has it even been that long?” She started to cry.

“I’m so sorry, Teresa. What are all these drawings of, anyway?”

“They’re sketches of memories my father and I have shared. I hoped they would help bring him back. This one is when he taught me how to ride a bike and put a bandaid on my scraped knee. This one is our first Christmas without my mom when we got the tallest tree we had ever gotten. This one is the last dinner we shared at our favorite restaurant before…” she choked back a sob, “before the accident.”

“That’s beautiful. What a great way to remember your father. He seems like an amazing man,” the surgeon said.

“He is,” Teresa stopped. “He was. You’re right. It’s been six months of this. It’s time to let him go.”

The next day, Teresa was back in the grass at front of the hospital sketching in her notebook with a lukewarm cup of coffee at her side. She wiped a tear from her eye, stood up and took a deep inhale before sighing it out. She carefully removed the page from her notebook and walked toward the entrance to say goodbye to her father one last time.

Linda and Maria were waiting for her at the desk. “We have a surprise for you, mi amor,” Maria said.

The nurses led Teresa to her father’s room. When they entered, the surgeon was taping something to the bed next to her drawings. It was a paper folded up with the words, “We love you, Teresa,” on it.

She unfolded the paper and immediately began to cry. Inside was a printed copy of a GoFundMe page started by the nurses on behalf of Teresa and a check. They had raised $20,000 to help her.

“I got you all something, too,” Teresa said, handing over the notebook page.

“What’s this?” Linda asked.

“My final memory with my father. I want you all to have it.”

Both nurses were moved to tears upon examining the drawing. It showed Teresa sitting next to her father on his hospital bed, kissing his forehead. At the foot of the bed, were three angels - two in scrubs and one in a white coat. On the bottom of the page in dark block letters read, “All healthcare heroes go to heaven.”