Ruth

Submitted by: Rachel, CO

At least once a month, I’m guaranteed a reminder of my Multiple Sclerosis. I’m also reminded of the impact of the kindness of others.

My diagnosis and subsequent treatment bring a myriad of emotions. I am healthy enough to do triathlons but sick enough to need infusions. I have this strange, incurable thing that occasionally looms large. Right now, it manifests in strange, inopportune ways…sunken and dark eyes for no good reason…random tingling in my limbs as if being hit being haphazardly with water from a sprinkler head…the occasional trip and fall…the latent fatigue that comes before it should.

Other than that, I’m a pretty tough, optimistic bird whose reminders come when I’m on the congested, eternally construction-laden I-25, enroute to the Denver VA to get my monthly infusion. It’s here that I occasionally experience the very human emotions of anger, sadness, and frustration, but also where I observe selflessness and profound gratitude.

This is where I met Ruth.

Ruth works at the infusion area of the VA clinic, where she treats people like me, as well as chemo patients and others. Upon entering this ward, I slide quietly into one of the empty, cream-colored, sterile seats, separated into clusters of four by a small half wall and facing each other like train cars. Some patients are accompanied by a loved one; others sit alone. Always, I’m sitting with my laptop, resolved to do schoolwork during two- or three-hour process of testing, vitals, questions, and finally, administration of the cold mixture of medications into my veins that keep my symptoms at bay.

Behind the scenes of this orchestrated dance, is Ruth, among others.

At first glance, Ruth is all business. A precise, shoulder-length gray bob frames her chiseled nose and cheeks, and a seasonal necklace is the only personal touch to her scrubs. Amidst her strength is also a quiet kindness that isn’t contrived—it is a way of life. It is a part of who she is, regardless of who is watching.

Consider the snack cart, for example. As is the case during every visit, a volunteer rolls by with a cart carrying a choice of comforting, nonperishable delights. One day, as I was making casual conversation with the volunteer pushing the cart, I casually asked about the origins of the cart snacks. She simply replied, “oh, that’s Ruth.” I tilted my head quizzically. She expanded, “Yes, Ruth provides those for the entire clinic.” In all the days and infusions and Grandma’s Cookies solicitations, I’d never thought to ask.

There are the other, more personal traits that also set her apart.  In my first appointment, Ruth and I had a show-and-tell of pictures and videos involving my dog-child, Rocket, a wiry, wise little terrier. Upon arriving the following month (and every month thereafter), she immediately asks me for Rocket updates. A few months back, my inquisitive nature had a question about the formal name of the medication I’ve been on for the last six years. Ten minutes later, Ruth returns with a hand-compiled stack of medical terminology that answers all of my questions, explaining the complexities with the care and compassion of a teacher to her pupil. In a place where I often feel very much out of place, I feel valued. I am at ease. I have trust in my care in what has often otherwise been a difficult experience.

I have a lot of questions about life–the good and the bad. I get angry and sad about my disease, the way we as a race treat animals, and our inability to be kind but opinionated. What I DO know is that when I see Ruth once a month, I know that she sees me, in all my dog-mom splendor. I am not just a patient. I am not “just a veteran with MS” who needs to be expedited in and out of her seat.  For that, I breathe a sigh of relief that people like Ruth, in all her cookie cart caring splendor, exist in this world of ours.