One of the hardest days of my med school experience, the second anniversary of Sept. 11, on which I was isolated from the friends I needed and compelled to work an 18-hour shift, I fell in love with a very special new patient. Pleasant and fun, never complaining even when she described symptoms that would send other people into a constant fit, Mrs. V. possessed a rare charm and appreciation of human kindness that reminded me of my very dear and deceased grandmother. I hated the first 11 hours of that workday, because I was compelled to work on the demands of the here and now, rather than find the space I needed to reflect on the past. Yet, in the final 7 hours of that burdensome day, meeting and working with Mrs. V. gave me something to look forward to and cherish, rather than regret. I would relish every subsequent morning when I could tap her door — though she wouldn't hear the tap — stride into her room happily, and sing a large, gentle, "good morning, Mrs. V." Quickly answered, no matter her pains, with an equally enthusiastic, "Good morning, George!"