We referred to her as fancy. We'd say it with a slight bounce of our head as if to imitate someone worthy of the string of pearls she refused to remove from around her neck. I received the call about her one afternoon and the story didn't quite make sense. I didn't bother prolonging the phone conversation, and reserved further decision making until I could interview and examine her myself. By the time I finally got to meet her, it was the next morning, and our fancy lady wanted to eat. I left that meeting still thinking something was amiss. And despite Fancy feeling even so much better the following day, we could even say all her complaints had resolved, all except the complaint that we weren't allowing her to eat of course, I was even more certain there was something missing. So I talked with her about surgery, strongly recommending it. She was hesitant, she confessed her fear, but in the end she trusted me enough to say yes. She elevated our fancy level within the OR requesting to wear her string of pearls. If you met Fancy you'd say yes to her any request like that as well. Recovering from surgery intravenous nutrition was immediately started, but despite my reassurances that her every nutritional need was being met, she'd turn her face away from me. Choosing instead to stare out the window she'd state shortly and simply but still fancy, "I want food." A phone conversation with Fancy's daughter provided me with more clarification and understanding than I even knew I had been missing. Fancy had starved in East Berlin after the war. Her daughter confessed that the family makes sure their mother always has food available. Food wasn't just about nutrition to my friend. I should have known, of course she wouldn't fit the typical, something had always been missing. In my head, I feared the worst of course, PTSD, etc. But in the end she was able to eat again, and I finally got to see her smile again. My friend, Fancy.
Much Love.
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