The Art of Caregiving

Even at age 12, I knew the paint-by-number picture I was working on wasn’t high art. But the recreational therapist on the pediatrics ward at the Cleveland Clinic had rolled the crafts cart into my room. It seemed the most promising kit.

I was in the hospital to see if I had a brain tumor. While I was filling in the lines of the horse on the canvas, matching the corresponding number with the correct color, I heard my surgeon’s booming voice outside the door. Dr. Hartwell. Aunt Bette had just shown me an article about him she’d clipped from The Plain Dealer newspaper. He was an artist in his own right and was charged with curating the exhibits for the public areas of the Cleveland Clinic.

I panicked. He can’t see my Mister Ed! I tried to hide my rendition of the famous talking horse under the bedcovers, but Dr. Hartwell entered the room before the clandestine operation was complete.

“Let’s see what you have there, Roberta,” he said. I was horrified and apologized for my lack of skill. Dr. Hartwell simply smiled as he admired Mister Ed. “You’ve taken such pains with this,” he said. His voice was reverent, like one you’d hear in a hallowed place. “Promise me for the rest of your life, you’ll do some kind of art every day.”

Thanks to my insightful caregiver, I’ve done just that.