A Couple More People I Met Over Memorial Day Weekend: 2025

May 26, 2025

Photo by Laurentiu Iordache on Unsplash

Before I close the chapter on my unexpected holiday weekend in the hospital, there are a few people I want to acknowledge, individuals who, in quiet ways, became part of the fabric of those days. They weren’t loud or showy, but they showed up exactly when I needed them. Just like the others I’ve written about, these folks were woven into the experience, each one leaving their own small but meaningful mark. I want to make sure they get the recognition they deserve.

The Nurse and the Stickers

There’s one more person I want to tell you about, my nurse from Sunday.

It started with my laptop, or more specifically, the stickers covering it: faded trail markers, national park logos, and a few obscure outdoorsy decals only a fellow hiker would catch. She noticed them almost immediately.

“Do you backpack?” she asked.

I nodded. “I’m more of a hobbyist backpacker/hiker,” I told her. “Not the kind who disappears into the backcountry for months, but enough to know that good socks can make or break you.”

We swapped stories. I listed a few trails I’ve done, then circled back to my favorite corners of Colorado. Especially the southern part. It’s quieter, rougher, and not built for Instagram. The kind of place that doesn’t care what you’re going through. It just exists. The silence out there resets you, not isolates.

She lit up. Turns out, she’s a traveler too. She’s been to Greece, Spain, Germany, France, and Belgium. Her heart, though, is pulling her toward Central America. Nicaragua and Guatemala in particular. Iceland is also on the list. She and her boyfriend set up a travel fund, with a chunk of every paycheck feeding the next adventure. That’s the kind of disciplined dreaming I admire. She’s already planning what comes next, which tells you a lot about how she sees the world.

Midway through the conversation, she said, “You look so alive when you talk about your adventures.”

That hit deeper than I expected. “Alive” isn’t always the word I’d use to describe myself right now. But in that moment, she saw something real. She saw the version of me who still dreams about new places, new meals, and learning how to pronounce things badly in another language.

She asked when and where I was going on my next and adventure. I noticed she say “when and where” there was not “if” in her question.

That kind of language shift matters when you’ve got a plastic bracelet around your wrist and your schedule revolves around labs and IV bags.

I told her Northern Italy. I’ve never been, but I imagine it often, lakes and hills, quiet streets worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, slow mornings with strong coffee, and a rhythm that doesn’t need your attention to keep going. I want to be somewhere that knows how to rest, so maybe I can learn too.

Brotherhood in the Lab Results

Later that same day, Sunday afternoon, I sat down with the hospital doctor to review my labs. There was blood in my urine. Not ideal, but not unexpected with ICE chemo. More hydration is needed, and a few protective meds will stay on the list. Discharge was likely the next day, assuming things kept trending in the right direction.

At some point, he picked up on something. I’m not sure if it was in how I spoke, or the way I instinctively watch the door when someone new walks in. I don’t think I called anyone a “Commie, Mother F*cker” withing his earshot, but he asked: “You served, didn’t you?”

Turns out, he did too. He had been a combat doctor, treating Soldiers and Marines on the front lines. The conversation changed instantly. This weekend was hitting him harder. He saw the meaning of this weekend from a different point of view.

We didn’t trade war stories. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet shift.

There’s a rhythm between people who have served. A kind of shorthand. It’s not about medals or rank. It’s about understanding.

It felt good to be seen that way again. Not as a patient or a diagnosis, but as someone who once wore the uniform and stood watch. That kind of recognition doesn’t happen often in hospitals. It landed just right. For both of us.

Maria, the Calm in the Chaos

Monday morning, as we waited for my final lab checks before discharge, I witnessed something quietly powerful.

A nearby patient had become disoriented and agitated. She didn’t know where she was or what was happening. You could feel the tension building. The nursing staff tried to help, but each effort seemed to make things worse. The patient was escalating quickly.

Then Maria stepped in.

She wasn’t on duty. She wasn’t even in scrubs. She was just there with me. But in that moment, she became exactly what that woman needed.

Her voice was calm and steady. Her presence was grounding.

Within moments, the fear began to melt away. It was like watching someone defuse a bomb using only empathy.

Maria’s not just a nurse by training, she’s a healer by instinct. Her care is quiet, but commanding. It comes from years of experience walking alongside people during their hardest moments.

She doesn’t calm people by taking over. She does it by showing them that they’re not alone.

This morning reminded me again that some of the strongest superpowers don’t come with titles or capes. They come with compassion, and I get to be loved by one of the best.

Gratitude in the Inbox

I want to thank Anthony Chan, the writer behind The People’s Economist on Substack. He sent a kind message this week that landed at the right time. Sometimes, words from someone you’ve never met can feel like a hand on your shoulder.

If you’re looking for thoughtful, accessible economic writing that doesn’t talk down to you, check him out here: https://thepeopleseconomist.substack.com.

Feet Pics and Passive Income

No, I’m not starting an OnlyFans site, despite the frankly concerning number of people who seemed genuinely intrigued when I joked about my baby feet. It. was. a. joke.

Mostly.

But hey, passive income is still income and hospital parking isn’t cheap. I may need to reconsider my previous position.

Waiting on my Discharge Orders

While I sat in the room, waiting for the printer to spit out my discharge papers, the door swung open and in trotted Uber, a seasoned nine-year-old therapy dog. He strolled over with the slow confidence of someone who has cracked the code on human anxiety, parked his warm side against my leg, and let out a deep, contented sigh. In that instant, the fluorescent lights felt softer, the beeping monitors faded into the background, and the knot I’d been carrying in my chest finally started to loosen. I scratched the spot behind his ears, the good spot, the one that makes dogs’ eyelids go half-mast, and he rewarded me with a gentle tail thump that said, “You’re doing fine, friend.”

Uber’s graying muzzle reminded me of my own two pups waiting at home, no doubt plotting an all-out couch takeover in my absence. That image made me smile wider than I had in days. Uber looked up, clearly proud of his work, then leaned in a little closer, as if to transfer a final dose of courage before trotting off to his next patient.

Sometimes the best medicine shows up on four paws, sporting a wagging tail and absolutely no regard for hospital sterile-field protocols.

I’m still dreaming about Colorado peaks and stone-worn streets in Italy.

I’m still here. Still in this fight. Still me.