To the Doctors Who Saved My Life, the Stranger Who Saved My Ankles, and the Professor Who Taught Me How to Paint - Thank You

**TW: Images of premature birth

Dear Doctors of Dekalb County,

I don’t remember you, but I am sure you remember me. For at least one of you, I was probably your first premature birth. I researched you in my thirties, and found that one of you had only just started your residency when I was born at a mere 25 weeks.

You worked a medical miracle during the dawn of your career, and I will be forever grateful. You made it possible for me to pen this letter. For me to meet the gaze of my Mother and Father, and the Mona Lisa. I know why she smiled now. She witnessed the caring of her fellow humans, and the fault of memory we so often succumb to when we forget to remember these small acts of grace.

I will never forget your kindness, and my good fortune to have been your patient. The odds were stacked against me, but you played your hand and deftly won for me the lot: my life.

Had it not been for your skill, composure under pressure, and steadfast trust in the face of adversity, I would not have lived to see my first sunrise or the spark of laughter in my lover’s eyes. Thanks to your kindness, I was born to bear witness to the beauty of this Earth and the creatures within it. And for that gift, I am eternally grateful.

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Dear Dori,

At least this is what I remembered calling you. My friends insisted I call you ‘Doctor’ given how hard you had worked to achieve the title, but you would have none of it. You were proud of your accomplishments, yes, but their necessitating pomp and circumstance was simply foolish. As far as you were concerned, your PhD didn’t make you different than any of your students, and you were determined to learn as much from them as they did from you. It was a refreshing flip of the script from many of my former professors, and for that, I thank you. Speaking to you was not intimidating, but rather, disarming. You made me feel it was okay to ask questions, okay to be a beginner in your class, unacquainted with the intricacies of fine art.

I remember one of the first weeks in Introduction to Acrylics. The list of supplies for the semester was extensive, and expensive for a student on a budget. My Stepfather did not approve of me being enrolled in your class. Whether it was because it was ‘impractical’ or because of your race or gender, I will never know for sure. All were equally likely. He had his moments of sexism, racism, and judgement against anything that did not fit into his very limited definition of what was ‘right’.

He refused to pay for any of my supplies, and I simply didn’t have the resources at the time to afford my own, despite working several jobs between high school and college. I would have to drop out.

But you would not have it. Out of the generosity of your heart, you provided me with the supplies needed to not only complete your course, but to continue to explore my artistic passions in my own time. I was bestowed bottles of Winsor and Newton, but most importantly, understanding and compassion from someone who had once been in my shoes. I had found acceptance in a stranger, who perhaps unbeknownst to you, became an important fixture in the direction of my life. Years later, I still dabble in the arts, and find companions in cadmium yellow and ultramarine.

When I lack the words to express my thoughts and feelings, I find solace in saturating my cold-pressed paper in water and allowing the colors to flow. You helped this head-first human find her artistic heart, and to me, that is your oeuvre.

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Dearest you,

You probably don’t remember me. I was the foreigner wandering around the Chueca metro, clutching my ankle in anguish in an attempt to squash the soreness in my swollen feet and blistered ankles. After miles of walking the cobbled streets of Madrid, I hobbled through the city, weary for relief. I stood dutifully on the left side of the escalator, waiting for my turn to walk towards la salida, before feeling a soft tap on my right shoulder. I found your hand outstretched with a small bandage, and a look of compassion in your eyes. I did not know the Spanish word for ‘blister’, but you knew the universal language of empathy. Your small act of kindness saved my feet from further damage, and renewed my faith in humanity. Gracias.