November 5th, the Beaver Full Moon. My husband was once again inpatient at Johns Hopkins Hospital. I’ve come to realize that hospitals, much like schools, seem to hum with a strange energy under a full moon. The atmosphere shifts, subtle at first, then undeniable, as if the moonlight itself stirs up restlessness in both patients and staff.
It began in the middle of the night. Despite the hallway lights that were too bright, we were sound asleep. Abruptly, the door was opened by a tech coming in to take vitals. She accidentally bumped my husband’s painfully swollen knee. She didn’t apologize just muttered under her breath, slapped the blood pressure cuff back on its hook, and stormed out. The moment hung in the air like a bad smell, we were in shock at the rudeness of the encounter, wondering what we had done wrong.
Morning didn’t bring much clarity. Doctors drifted in and out, each with a different interpretation of symptoms and next steps. Procedures were mentioned, postponed, reconsidered. I scribbled notes, trying to catch every word, but after five or ten minutes, the doctors checked their phones or watches, ready to move on to the next patient. One doctor made an awkward joke at my husband’s expense, then contradicted the orders from his previous visit.
Later, sitting by the window overlooking the dome, I thought about the Beaver Moon. Traditionally, it marks the time when beavers repair their lodges and prepare for the long winter ahead; gathering, building, fortifying. There’s something deeply comforting in that image: small creatures working quietly and with purpose, getting ready to endure what’s coming.
In many ways, caregiving feels like that, a slow, steady kind of construction. You wake each day and patch what’s frayed, gather what’s needed, and do your best to keep the water from seeping in. Resilience isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s the quiet act of staying, of holding a hand, making a bed, watching the moonlight shift across the wall.
That night, as I watched the Beaver Moon rise over the city skyline, I felt a strange calm settle in. I make a point each month to spend time outside under the full moon, I’ve been doing it since childhood. My mom would celebrate the full moon by taking us outside to “howl” like wolves, even in three feet of snow. Looking at the moon, for a small moment, the chaos of the day eased as I found a rhythm of deep breaths. I realized that calm doesn’t come all at once; it seeps in slowly, like the tide returning after a storm.
I whispered a small prayer of gratitude, for my husband’s quiet courage and positive attitude, and for the moon itself: steady, luminous, and ancient. A reminder that no matter how uncertain the night, the light always returns.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
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