Not long after my high school graduation at age 17, I saw you in the early fall at that cursed nursing home on the wrong side of town, alone in a stark, bare room, with few, if any, personal belongings. I’d never experienced such a place; never dreamed my special someone, whose love was transformative, would end up there. Your spirit was weak, and your body even more frail.

You were the oldest person I’d ever personally known. The spidery blue veins and bruises covering your wrinkled, ashy, paper thin skin on your shrunken frame, were shocking to me. You were now a child’s height. Your haunting eyes spoke of hurt, confusion, and helplessness. You had no words. My breathing stopped when I saw you. My heart fractured.

I stifled sobs as we hurriedly left the building, and I heard someone scream again and again, “How could you?  How could you?” to my Mother. She admitted years later that you never should have been in that place. Your diamond ring was stolen from your finger while you slept helplessly. I never saw you again.

Being on my own at 17 at Indiana University, a Big Ten school, was overwhelming, with too many life lessons and subjects to learn in too short a time, not to mention too many boyfriends and way too many late dates. It was daunting walking from class to class, hauling my heavy backpack of books in all kinds of unpredictable weather, with some buildings 20 minutes apart.

It was nearly impossible being prepared and on time for every class, being clean, and wearing clean clothes and makeup. No one offered help, and I was too lost and overwhelmed to ask. After watching me arrive too late to eat in the locked dining hall yet again, soaked through after a cold rain, my dorm counselor arrogantly announced “You’ll never make it,” which turned out to be the best thing this stubborn know-it-all could hear.