59. Small Gestures
"In English, “thank you’”derives from “think.” It originally meant, “I will remember what you did for me”—which is usually not true either.”
Before you dive into today’s prompt, we have an excerpt from anthropologist David Graeber’s Debt: The First 5,000 Years. It's a meditation on the etymology of ‘thank you’—and its implications across languages:
"In English, “thank you” derives from “think.” It originally meant, “I will remember what you did for me”—which is usually not true either—but in other languages (the Portuguese obrigado is a good example) the standard term follows the form of the English “much obliged”—it actually does means “I am in your debt.” The French merci is even more graphic: it derives from “mercy,” as in begging for mercy; by saying it you are symbolically placing yourself in your benefactor”s power—since a debtor is, after all, a criminal. Saying “you’re welcome,” or “it’s nothing” (French de rien, Spanish de nada)—the latter has at least the advantage of often being literally true—is a way of reassuring the one to whom one has passed the salt that you are not actually inscribing a debit in your imaginary moral account book. So is saying “my pleasure”—you are saying, “No, actually, it’s a credit, not a debit—you did me a favor because in asking me to pass the salt, you gave me the opportunity to do something I found rewarding in itself!”"
Prompt:
Write a letter to a healthcare worker. It could be a person who took care of you or a loved one years ago. It could be someone you know who is working on the front lines of Covid-19, taking on the obvious risks but also contending with the very real compassion fatigue that comes with the job, all the more so now. Write without expecting anything in return. Write to say thank you.
Jill Finan
Location: Rochester, NY
About: My start as a writer was when I was eight years old when I wrote my first short story! My start in life was rocky; I was premature and I was alone in a hospital incubator for weeks, struggling to survive. I was inspired by a photo of a nurse holding me up so my father - who couldn't touch me - took the picture to take home to my older sisters.
Age: 69
To the nurse in this photo:
This picture was taken 69 years ago, sometime in April of 1951, so you are likely gone now or a very old lady. I cherish this image of you, gently cradling a newborn baby in your hands. You are masked so your face is hidden, but from the slight crinkle of your eyebrows I can sense that you are smiling.
That tiny baby is me. I was born several weeks prematurely, weighing in at just around four pounds. I spent the first weeks of my life in an incubator. Back in 1951 there weren’t Neonate ICUs as there are now, with up to date technology and equipment to keep a struggling preemie alive. There were only incubators and nurses like you.
My birth was unusual. My mother had uterine fibroids that were threatening my life, so her doctor decided to operate and deliver me via C-section at the same time they removed her compromised uterus. So I was sort of jerked into a cold, strange world. You can see the consternation on my face. (I still wear that look from time to time – quite a lot these days.)
Because my mother had just undergone major surgery and my father had three other girls at home to look after, my parents weren’t available to hold me and soothe me during those scary first days of my life. That’s where you came in. Now, hospitals have volunteers who come in to hold and rock new babies; then, there was only you and the other OB-GYN nurses.
I probably felt my first human warmth from you. I probably heard my first lullaby from you. I probably got my first bottle and my first diaper change from you. And you were the one who held me up so my father could snap a picture of me to take home to show to my sisters.
You gave me my start in life, and gave me the first care I received in life. I’d like for you to know that life has been a good one. I’ve loved and been loved. I’ve had a good and fulfilling career. I live a rewarding life now, full of challenge, creativity, and love.
But for that very beginning, that very start in life, I want to thank you. Again I want to imagine you smiling as you learn that the tiny preemie you hold in this photo turned out all right.
Wherever you are, know that you did a good thing. And that good thing lives on today.
Marigrace Bannon
Location: San Francisco, CA
About: My inspiration for all my entries were the prompts, my life, and a great deal of introspection.
Age: 65
Leah,
I don’t know if you remember me. We met at the Laundromat at about Day 50 of Shelter in Place.
Today, is Day 74 in San Francisco. Does anyone know what day it is? Well, you probably do,
working on the front lines of the Corona Virus as an I.C.U. Nurse at San Francisco General Hospital.
We were both masked.
You were on the far end of the Laundromat taking your clothes from the washing machine into a dryer.
I was removing my clothes from the dryer. I live upstairs from the Laundromat, which is the only
place, I’ve been, other than one Walgreen’s run for toilet
paper and generic disinfectant wipes since the Shelter in Place took effect.
I longed for momentary conversation and started a dialogue.
“Are you working from home?”
I assumed she was a tech worker.
“No, I’m a nurse.”
“You look so young.”
“Well I’m 30, and I’ve been a nurse for seven years.”
When Leah told me she was an I.C.U. nurse at General Hospital my heart constricted and I could only
imagine what she encounters on a daily, hourly, minute by minute basis.
I asked, “Do you do 3-12’s?”
“Usually, but, I just finished my 12th shift and I’ll be off for a week. I just want to rest.”
She explained the strong bonds and camaraderie she shared with her unit.
“We’re really tight.”
“We lost a man last night to COVID. My colleague brought out her iPad so he could say goodbye
to his family and loved ones.”
Tears trickled down my flushed cheeks. To die, gasping for breath, with no one to hold your hand to say
goodbye.
“We’ve lost some young people too, they’re not all elderly or frail. People don’t know that, but its true.”
“Thank you. It’s such hard work.”
She smiled. Thank you could never be enough. Her roommate is also an I.C.U. Nurse.
Nurses during this pandemic, are almost like clergy, saying goodbye when no one else can.
Sending them off- the last word, the last touch. The transitions are not seamless.
And then, the nurses continue on to their next patients.
1,000
Thank –You’s.
I wish you safety, acknowledgment and some peaceful rest before your next shift.
In gratitude,
You neighbor,
Marigrace