He was a lively man in his 80's when I first met him. He had twinkling blue eyes and a broad smile. His name was Frank with a proud Italian last name. When I came into his hospital room, he began to speak to me in Hebrew! I laughed out loud and asked him how he came to know such an obscure language. He told me that he was an engineer that worked on the first water filtration system in Israel back in 1940s. He caught rheumatic fever while working there and wound up with an "enlarged heart" over time. Now he was ill with end stage heart failure, an incessant ventricular arrythmia and a cardiac defibrillator that continually shocked him.

His eyes had grown dim with macular degeneration and his hearing was poor. His sharp mind clearly understood his serious medical condition. Why should I continue living he would ask me? I can't read. I can't hear. What is the point? The point was that his family adored him and wanted to bring him home one last time.

I decided to bring him a surprise, a mental "distraction." I went to the book store and bought the hot best seller on audio tape. I borrowed my daughter's CD player and delivered it to Frank the next day. He had never worked a CD player in his life. He loved it and each day we would discuss a little of the book as I examined him. Frank did go home for the last time.

Three weeks after he left the hospital his daughter called me to say that they had just left Frank's physician's office. They were on the way home and Frank insisted on seeing me. His daughter explained that he was too weak to get out of the car and asked if I could meet them in front of the hospital. Frank had a present for me. I told her it was not necessary. She insisted that this was very important to him.

Ten minutes later, I met all of Frank's family down in front of the hospital traffic circle. He handed me a box and said that he wanted to make sure I didn't forget him.
I quietly returned to my desk and opened his gift. Inside was a crystal figurine, a butterfly. I didn't understand. What did it mean? I called Frank's daughter and she said, "Don't you know that he called you his butterfly? . . . The way you used to flit into the room? He wants the gift to remind you of him and the time you shared together.

Frank's daughter called 4 days letter to say he passed away. He was right about everything. Every butterfly reminds me of him.

—Reva Gager, NP
Long Island Jewish Medical Center