Ruby's Purse and The Pandemic

The year was the year 2020, an extraordinary year of both pain and reflection. I was in my early forties, recently divorced, and was working as a nurse on the frontlines in rural Tennessee during a deadly surge of the coronavirus pandemic. Our bed capacity was stretched to its limits and our small staff was overwhelmed and scared.

Our days were filled with dread and duty. The dread, which came in waves, would fill every inch of my being, robbing me often of a peaceful night’s sleep. The images of fear and helplessness, seen in the only visible feature of one’s face, the eyes, would haunt me. The eyes, often brimming with tears, darted back and forth, blinking excessively, as if closing one’s eyes quickly & reopening might transport them to a new, and more hopeful reality.

And then, there was the duty. It was a never-ending shift, often lasting longer than scheduled, of sensory overload. The bright lights, the constant beeping of the machines, the shuffling of feet to and fro, etc. There was not enough time to grieve. There was always another life that was critically ill that needed our care and attention. Our small ER was under siege, and for a time, it was relentless and sustained. There was one patient whose brief encounter changed my life permanently. Her name was Ruby and the story goes as follows.

It was a cold and damp day. As I pulled into the hospital and parked, I could see that an ambulance was at the drop off . There appeared to be a bit of struggle occurring as the person on the stretcher was pulling her oxygen off, attempting to stand up, and apparently trying to catch her breath. I had put on an N95 mask, but had little else protecting me, so I couldn’t help too much. The lady looked to be nearly 90 with long grey hair, which was pulled back from her face. Her eyes were soft blue.

She was struggling to breathe, was disoriented, and was flailing her arms about, yanking her oxygen off of her nose. I asked the EMTs if they needed my help. One thrusted a small green purse into my hands, asking if I could hold it for a minute as they helped her inside. I quickly shoved the small green purse into my own bag, forgetting about it, and proceeded to clock in for the day.

The rest of the day seemed a bit of a blur. As other days, it was a steady flow of patients who were primarily being seen for Covid-19 symptoms. I spent the day checking in patients, taking their vitals, paying particular attention to their oxygen levels. At the end of my shift, I clocked out, feeling somewhat numb from another grueling day of working on the frontlines.

The temperature outside had fallen a few degrees and there was a chill in the air. The wet, heavy, drops of rain that were mixed in with sleet, were hitting the windshield and the hum and clicking of the wipers faded, as my mind went on autopilot. Before I knew it, I was pulling into my driveway. I was eager to strip the clothes off of me and place them in the washer. I had become accustomed to the ritual of taking a hot shower before I did much else. I’d walk in, briefly greet my dog, Gracie, and then head directly to the shower.

If I was going to “break” at all, it was usually during this time. I’d stand in the hot, steamy shower, releasing the weight of grief and fear that I had held so tightly during the day. Especially on the days when we lost a patient or two, or we transported someone that we all knew might not make it. It was here in the confined space of my shower, where I’d allow the waves of grief to hit me and the “dam to break”, releasing the salty tears that were washed away with hot water and soap. Some days were harder than others. Some showers laster longer too.

Tomorrow was my day off and I had just finished putting on my comfy clothes and was trying to decide which would “win out”, my hunger or exhaustion. I decided to nap on the couch. I recall reaching into my purse to get out my phone, when the emerald purse slipped out, and landed on the hard wood floor near my feet.

“On No!” I muttered to myself picking up the purse of the first patient I encountered earlier in the day. I had completely forgotten about it! I opened up the purse to see if there was any identifying information in it. Inside, was a small black notebook and a tube of lipstick. I didn’t want to invade her privacy, but was looking for identifying information so that I could call someone on shift to tell them I would drop it by tomorrow.

On the front page, which was bound by a faded, tan leather strap, I found the words written in calligraphy: “Book belongs to: Ruby Debois”. The name sounded somewhat familiar, but not enough to make any certain connection. Sandwiched in between the pages in the middle of the book, that looked somewhat like a registry, was a basic ID and a Medicare card. I quickly dialed up the number to the hospital, asking for Nancy, a co-worker, and asked her if the patient was still there. Nancy’s voice fell flat when I asked, and shared that Mrs. Debois was transferred not long after I left, but had passed en route to the regional hospital. She then told me to hang on to it and bring it the next day that I was scheduled to work, as the weather was gradually getting worse and there was snow in the forecast.

We said our goodbyes and I hung up the phone. Exhausted, and a little dismayed at hearing the news, I curled up on the couch, inviting Gracie to lie beside me. It wasn’t long before I had fallen fast asleep.

I woke up a bit startled, in the midst of a dream that appeared so life-like that it jarred me back to my senses. A little disoriented and even a bit sweaty, I wiped off my brow and peered back behind me to see the kitchen clock. I had been asleep for nearly five hours. As I gradually came back to my senses and was more grounded, the details of the dream came flooding back.

In my dream, I was sitting across from Ruby, she was much younger, and so was I. Her blue eyes were piercing through to my very soul while she repeated the words, “Let go, and you will be rewarded”. It was a brief, but vivid dream. Let go of what exactly?

A bit befuddled, but also now feeling a bit ravenous, I hastily stood up, and the black book fell to the ground, this time, landing face-side down, opened. It nearly scared me. I guess I had fallen asleep with the black book tucked underneath me. It had become wrapped up in my covers, falling to the floor when I stood up.

Picking up the book, I noticed something that sent shivers up and down my spine, causing me to gasp, falling back a little, accidentally landing briefly on my dogs hind leg, causing her to let out a loud whelp.

Written there in the small leather bound book was my name, and a date of nearly twenty years ago! At this point, feeling weak, I sat down on the couch again, my mind racing a bit, indexing the years. That does look to be my name, written in my handwriting!

Then, like a lightening bolt, the connection cemented in my brain. I remember! It’s Ruby, the eccentric, little, older lady that lived in the hills of Sneedville, TN, known as the “clairvoyant cat lady”. She had predicted correctly a few deaths and even a few other events. Most in the community steered clear of her as they felt she was “doing the devil’s work”. I now easily recalled my visit to her home long ago after my mom had passed away when I was struggling to cope with the loss.

I can remember timidly walking up to her stone home, knocking with some hesitancy and trepidation. And yet, when the door flung open, and out came two cats along with a lady smelling of patchouli, dressed in layers of lace, all my fear abated. I was met with such loving and comforting blue eyes, I immediately was put at ease.

She invited me into her home. It was in that space, sitting behind jeweled curtains, that she shared with me what was “in my cards”. “Life is fleeting and fast” She said, “And soon you’ll turn around and you’ll be much older and wiser, and yet, you will also be one step closer to leaving this realm”. She then lowered her voice, as if nearly to a whisper and said: “Your mother is still here with you, energy never disappears, it only changes form”. I can remember looking around quickly, nearly expecting my Mom to just walk out of a room and into the hallway of Ruby’s home.

She then asked me what my mother’s favorite bird was. Without hesitation, I told her, a “red cardinal”. My Mom always would say that a red cardinal was a “messenger from heaven”. Ruby then instructed me “to look for my Mom in times of hardship, she will be there to comfort you”. And to “let go” of any weight as life is too brief to be slowed down with regret, grief, or sadness.

“Let go and be light, like a bird, you’ll see”. And then she sent me on my way.

Coming back to the present, I closed the black leather notebook, lying it down carefully, as if it were made of gold, treasuring the gift just given to me.

Upon awakening the following day, I walked to my the window, and to my surprise, it had snowed. I made coffee and sat by the window, recalling the vivid dream of last night. I was lost in thought, watching the snow lightly fall when my eyes caught something moving in distance. To my delight, it was a red cardinal. I sat, spellbound for what seemed 20 minutes watching this beautiful bird grace the backyard flying from windowsill to the fence that lined my home.

The following day, I went back to work, giving Ruby’s purse to the business office without going into any explanation of what it meant to me or sharing any details of my dream.

Month’s passed, but Ruby’s words: “Let go” remained in the forefront of my mind as the pandemic raged on, and grief piled up, compounding the trauma I felt in losing so many.

Her words were like a blanket, comforting me and helping me to release, “let go”, and grieve the losses.

Nearly a year later, in a surprising turn of events, the executer of Ruby’s will contacted me sharing that I, along with others who had sought out her advice and had signed her small black notebook, were to receive a sum of money from her estate.

It was a cold, snowy day when I deposited the gift of $20,000 that came from Ruby’s will. Being that I had only been divorced for a year, it was a layer of security. As I rested in thought ,watching it snow, a cardinal again appeared, leaving me less lonely. As it flew away, I felt lighter, letting go, knowing that I too, one day, will also fly away.