1: Floyd Barker was 88 years old. He lived alone in a rustic farmhouse he had shared with his late wife Ruth, who had passed away six years earlier.
“You couldn’t tell from his gregarious smile and inquisitive eyes,” Diane Button writes in her wonderful book What Matters Most: Lessons the Dying Teach Us About Living, but “Floyd was lonely. . .
“He was also dying from kidney failure,” Diane notes, “but it was the loneliness and grief that were causing his greatest suffering.”
2: One day, Floyd asked Diane to join him for a doctor’s visit to take some notes, because his son was busy that day.
“When we arrived, Floyd walked into the office, grinning from ear to ear,” Diane recalls. “I was surprised to see him so upbeat, because he was about to get an exam and some lab work, but his joy was undeniable.”
The woman at the front desk looked up at us and then looked down at her keyboard.
“Patient’s name?” she said.
“My name is Floyd Barker,” he responded, never breaking his smile.
“Date of birth?”
“January 21, 1920.”
“Reason for visit?”
Floyd started to say he was there for a checkup and lab work, but she interrupted him.
“Go have a seat in the waiting room, please.”
Diane writes: “I noticed Floyd’s demeanor had changed, yet he sat right down and looked around the waiting room. He still had a remarkable, yet somewhat less vibrant, smile of contentment on his face.”
The next stop was the examination room, where they took a seat. A nurse walked into the room.
“Floyd greeted her with a larger-than-life smile and asked how her day was going,” Diane remembers.
“Fine, and you?” the nurse mumbled in a tone that suggested she wasn’t really interested in his response to her question.
“It’s a lovely day and I’m doing well, thank you,” Floyd said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Can you confirm your name?” the nurse asked.
“My name is Floyd Barker.”
“Date of birth?”
“January 21, 1920.”
“OK, I’ll need to take your vitals.”
He sat quietly while she worked. “OK, the doctor will be in soon,” she said while exiting the room, without even once looking at Floyd.
A few minutes later, the doctor entered. She smiled and said, “Floyd, it’s so good to see you. How have you been doing?
“My body is doing as well as it can at this age, but honestly, I’ve really struggled with taking care of myself and keeping my routines since Ruth died,” Floyd answered. “It is hard to get out of bed some days, and my morning coffee never tastes the same. I miss her so much.”
The doctor looked into Floyd’s eyes. “I remember when you and Ruth used to come to appointments together. You were clearly so in love and so supportive of each other. You two were such an inspiration. It must be very hard to adjust to her loss.”
He nodded his head and sighed before sharing how much Ruth had impacted his life.
“Everything felt so much easier when she was alive. I didn’t have to think about making the bed, we would just get up and do it together as we talked. We used to walk together to the farmers market every Sunday, and now I just drive to the store when I’m running low on food. I’m trying to take care of myself, but it all feels like so much more of a chore now that I’m doing it alone.”
The doctor listened carefully. Floyd then gave her an update on his health and shared his feelings of loneliness and frustration.
“She even engaged in a detailed conversation about the time he was spending on his photo collection,” Diane writes. She “encouraged him to meet with friends and enjoy his life, while still allowing himself the time be needed to grieve and remember his life with Ruth.”
3: When they returned to the car, Floyd smiled and said, “I really like her. You know, I always try to be nice to everyone, but she’s the only person who ever even looks at me when I come here.”
Diane writes: “It struck me that, aside from occasional visits from his son, the outing to the doctor’s office was a highlight of Floyd’s week. The conversations with the intake person, the nurse, and the doctor might be the only personal interactions he would have outside of his home all week.
“While these brief interactions could never heal Floyd’s broken heart,” she observes, “they could give him a chance to feel seen, heard, and cared about again.”
The trip to the doctor that day sparked an insight for Diane: “Floyd’s love for Ruth and his desire to connect with others reminded me that people and relationships are the core of what matters most.”
We “never really know what another person is going through, or how lonely they might be,” Diane writes. We “might be the only person someone gets to see or talk to that day.”
So what can we do?
“Pause and listen,” she suggests.
“Take an interest in the person standing next to you. Honor them with the gift of your time, or at least with a kind smile. It’s so easy.
“We are all sharing the same planet. Let’s acknowledge each other. See each other. Listen to each other.
“Even a simple smile can make someone’s day,” she writes.
True that. More next week!
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Reflection: How often do we pause, truly listen, and acknowledge the people around us—even when we’re busy or distracted?
Action: Make a conscious effort this week to smile at, speak with, or spend a few moments listening to someone who might otherwise feel invisible.
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