Anchors of Comfort
A Medical Journey's Quiet Moments
Comfort doesn't always arrive in the ways we expect it to. After leaving Vanderbilt Medical Center with news that weighed heavily on my heart, I found myself at Cafe Intermezzo face-to-face with what locals had crowned the city's best hot chocolate. The accolade seemed trivial against the weight of the day, yet something about this cup spoke to me in ways that words could not.
The drink arrived like a piece of art: swirls of peanut butter dancing through rich chocolate, fresh cream forming clouds on the surface, and tiny chocolate morsels scattered like stars. However, it was the unexpected rainbow arc cast by a nearby candle holder that took my breath away, playing across the surface in a prismatic dance. These small moments of beauty felt like gifts I hadn't asked for but definitely needed.
The previous day, I had picked up another gift – a quilt my best friend had sewn. Mary Beth made the quilt from Etta Vee's "Kindness Always" fabric collection, and it is a symphony of joyful colors: bright stars dancing across a crisp white background, each block stitched with loving precision. The quilting tells stories of its own– roses, butterflies, and daisies flow across the surface in intricate patterns. The quilt’s flannel backing exists to wrap me in warmth, a constant hug I can carry with me through challenging days.
Words of comfort often fall flat in moments of sorrow. Well-meaning phrases can ring empty against real pain; these platitudes of sympathy feel more like a burden than relief. The rich, warm hot chocolate? It asked nothing of me, just as the quilt existed simply to hold me. They didn't need me to explain, to be strong, or to look on the bright side. Instead, they brought joy in their quiet presence—the hot chocolate warmed my hands and soothed tight muscles in my throat. The quilt warmed my body, gently hugged me, and reminded me of my friend's steadfast support.
In these moments of medical uncertainty, this path can feel lonely, but I've found that comfort sometimes shows up in unexpected places. Sometimes, it's in the temporary embrace of a perfect cup of hot chocolate, a fleeting moment of warmth and sweetness that distracts from pain. Other times, it's in the permanent embrace of a friend's love, stitched into fabric stars that will shine through countless difficult nights, a constant reminder that I am not alone. Both remind me that even in difficult moments, there are still threads of brightness to hold onto – whether they last for a warm sip or forever.
Perhaps this is some level of healing: not just in the medical charts and treatment plans, but in these quiet moments of being held – by warm ceramic, by soft flannel, by the silent understanding that we are not alone. These are the moments when the weight of the world seems to lift, if only for a brief pause. While doctors search for answers, these small anchors of comfort remind me that some forms of medicine aren’t prescribed – they come instead in the gentle persistence of friendship, in the quiet acceptance of a moment's peace, in the soft landing places we find along the way.
