I am not the same person I was two months ago, when I first began walking the Main Loop at Johns Hopkins as a Care Partner for my husband. What was meant to be a routine morning of outpatient evaluations quickly shifted. Instead of heading home, we found ourselves escorted by the head of Hepatology, first to the hepatology unit, and then through the doors of the first of three Intensive Care units. 

Since Covid, I hadn’t ventured beyond Annapolis, so even the drive itself felt daunting. By the time we arrived, the maze of city traffic and the stress of finding parking at the hospital added another layer to an already overwhelming day.

I quickly learned the trick of taking a photo of the parking level displayed on the garage walls to find my way back to my car. Luckily, the security guards were helpful when I was trying to find my way to whichever building my husband was in.

I have had days of feeling sorry for myself. This journey has been both a mental and physical challenge. Most nights I’ve slept in a chair, awakened again and again by nurses checking vitals or by medical teams making split-second decisions about my husband’s care, decisions that sometimes included another middle-of-the-night move to yet another ICU.

I am weary of the food court, endlessly searching for something healthy to eat. One day was unexpectedly brightened when I discovered a sandwich that, to my delight, included arugula.

In many ways, I’ve become invisible here, an unnoticed part of the hospital’s landscape. The only people who consistently acknowledge me are the security guard at the outpatient visitors’ entrance and the woman who makes my coffee every morning.

In the early days of our stay, I lived in a constant state of fear. Each time I opened my husband’s chart, I turned to Google to decipher the unfamiliar medical terms. Almost every definition pointed to something critical or life-threatening. My poor daughter, Jenny, became my sounding board and confidante, shouldering my fears while also managing everything at home.

In my search for peace, I discovered a hidden sanctuary: a koi pond tucked away in a tiny garden. It has become my refuge, a place I visit each day to regain my calm and steady my mind.

I’ve read three books, knit ten mittens, and filled quiet hours with my small watercolor set. Matt and I pass the time together with games; gin rummy, double solitaire, Mancala, and Scrabble, finding small moments of normalcy amid the upheaval.

I found an app that tracks my steps along the Main Loop, and it’s gratifying to see how my morning and afternoon walking meditations are strengthening me, mentally as well as physically.

Sometimes, as I walk, I make eye contact with someone wandering the halls just as I did in those first weeks. My heart aches for them. One afternoon, I overheard a woman say to her partner, “Today was a horrible day, but ice cream will make it all better.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there isn’t any ice cream at Johns Hopkins; ice cream is for those few hours spent at home doing laundry and watching “Housewives.”

This journey has tested me in ways I never could have imagined, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I have felt invisible, exhausted, and afraid, yet I have also discovered resilience I didn’t know I possessed. In the midst of sterile hallways and sleepless nights, I’ve found solace in a koi pond, comfort in simple games, and kindness in unexpected places. Though this chapter is not one I would have chosen and is far from over, it has changed me profoundly, reminding me that even in the hardest seasons, there can still be moments of grace, connection, and quiet strength.

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. 

This morning, when The Last Train to Clarksville by The Monkees came on Pandora, a flood of memories came rushing back from the days of my Monkees obsession.

In July of 1967, my younger brother and I spent a month with my aunt, splitting our time between Boston, Biddeford Pool in Maine, and New York City. While in Boston, my aunt and uncle surprised us with tickets to see The Monkees in concert at the Boston Garden, a dream come true for my eleven-year-old self.

My grandmother, ever elegant, insisted that I be properly dressed for such an important occasion. She took me to Jordan Marsh, where I chose a babydoll-style dress with tiny puffed sleeves, designed by Betsey Johnson long before she became the iconic name she is today. With shiny new shoes to match, I felt like the most glamorous fan in the world, ready for the biggest night of my young life.

That same summer, The Jimi Hendrix Experience had briefly been added to The Monkees’ U.S. tour. Fresh from his electrifying debut at the Monterey Pop Festival just weeks before, Hendrix seemed an odd match for a band adored by preteens. Night after night, Hendrix endured waves of boos and shouts for Davy Jones. The mismatch became clear, and by July 17, 1967, Hendrix left the tour. Newspapers spun the story, claiming groups like the Daughters of the American Revolution had banned him for being “too erotic” for the Monkees’ young audience. The truth was simpler, two very different worlds had collided, and neither one belonged on the other’s stage.

When I took my seat at the Boston Garden on July 22, Hendrix was already gone. At eleven, I wouldn’t have understood his music anyway, but how I wish now that I could say I’d seen him perform that night. Instead, I squealed with delight as my idols, The Monkees, took the stage. For me, it was pure magic, music, youth, and the thrill of being part of something bigger than myself.

Looking back, it was one of those moments that defined an era: a girl in her Betsey Johnson dress, clutching childhood dreams in a world where pop idols and rock revolutionaries were, for a brief and strange time, part of the same story.

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. 

Board games were always a much desired birthday or Christmas gift in my childhood home. Saturday morning cartoons were filled with commercials for the latest toys and games. Most of the kids in my friend group had Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, and Scrabble, but it was a big status thing to have a game closet. As the third child in a family of four kids, my game closet was filled to the brim. Games were there on rainy summer days, weekends, and times when boredom took hold.

I can still sing the jingle, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh,” from the game Camp Granada. It was one of my very first favorites. The object of the game was to move the camp bus, collect three “icky” animals, and then make your way out of Camp Granada. Of course, if the bus “broke down,” the unlucky player had to lose a turn.

Another favorite was The Game of Life. Unlike the quick turns of Camp Granada, this one was an event, it could take up to forty-five minutes to play with as many as six players gathered around the board. I loved how it simulated the journey from childhood to retirement, with all the big milestones along the way, choosing a career, getting married, having children, and eventually reaching retirement. Spinning the colorful wheel and watching where the little plastic cars would land always made the game feel like a miniature version of real life.

Another television commercial driven gift was Mouse Trap. The real thrill of this game wasn’t as much the competition as building the mousetrap. Piece by piece we cooperated in assembling the Rube Goldberg style machine. Watching the ball roll, gears turn, and the trap finally drop was pure childhood excitement, it felt like magic every time we played.

Clue was a game that made frequent appearances in our house. It had so many moving parts that it always felt a little more sophisticated than the others. The rooms, the character cards, and the tiny weapons added a layer of mystery and excitement. We loved slipping into the roles of Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet, (especially Miss Scarlet) or Professor Plum and trying to be the first to solve the whodunit. Every roll of the dice brought us closer to uncovering the culprit in the grand old mansion.

As the years went on, Clue became a favorite with my own children. Unlike some games parents secretly dread, this was one I was always happy to play. In lieu of television, one night a week we set aside time for a family board game, and Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, and Clue were always at the top of the list.

For my youngest, Cece, Clue was more than just a pastime, it was a passion. She loved it so much that when she packed her trunks for college in London, she made sure to tuck the game inside. Now, years later, Cece has come full circle. She’s not just playing the game, she’s embodying it, appearing as Miss Scarlet in the local stage production of Clue at the Oxford Community Center in a sold out crowd to rave reviews. From rolling dice around the family table to stepping into the spotlight, it feels like the story of the game has woven itself right into her own life.

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. 

Self checkout was introduced in 1986 in limited locations, becoming more popular during the COVID-19 pandemic. Customers preferred not having to interact with a cashier. Self checkout can sometimes be faster than using a cashier lane, but in some instances, self checkout can be a frustrating experience.

For the most part, when available, I prefer to use the self-checkout option when shopping. However, sometimes there is a glitch, a malfunction that is extremely challenging. Calling the one employee in charge of the self-checkout section involves a wait time (usually while they assist another shopper) and sometimes a lecture on the correct use of the machines. My response to the employee who is reprimanding me about my mistake: “ I wasn’t trained on this particular computer.” The employees sometimes laugh but mostly they ignore me.

The past month has tested every ounce of my mental and physical strength. My husband has been an inpatient at Johns Hopkins Hospital, and life has revolved around hospital corridors, parking garages, and the daily uncertainty that comes with medical care. I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to about navigating those winding concrete ramps and even discovered the modern-day lifeline that is Grubhub, because the food is depressing when the cafeteria tray rolls in at mealtime.

Hospitals are different now. Staffing shortages mean nurses and aides are stretched thin, and much of the burden of basic care falls on patients and their loved ones. It’s not unusual for my husband and me to tidy his room, restock supplies, or keep an eye on his medication schedule. My husband has even become a quick study in medical equipment, confidently silencing the beeping IV pump and disconnecting himself when necessary. These are skills no one anticipates learning, yet here we are.

Through all of this, one truth stands out with absolute clarity: every patient needs an advocate. Someone to speak up, to ask the right questions, to notice when something is off, and to make sure nothing important slips through the cracks. In a place where the pace is frantic and the system is strained, advocacy isn’t just important, it’s vital.

And yet, in the middle of the stress, there have been unexpected blessings, moments of laughter between us, small kindnesses from strangers, and the quiet gratitude that comes with realizing how strong we can be when we have no other choice. This chapter is not an easy one, but we are moving through it together, step by step, with hope as our compass and love as our anchor.

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.