It was the end of the day at the clinic and I was exhausted. Every fifteen minutes a new patient would show up, I would unwrap their legs, wash their feet, call in the nurse to check on their wounds, then re-wrap their legs and send them on their way with a promise that we would see them next week. The days were a bit repetitive, but I loved my job. I loved getting to see my patients heal and regain their independence. I saw the impact that our team and our treatment had on them. The downfall to the repetitiveness was that it became easy to fall into a routine. See a patient, help a patient, send them on their way. Rinse, wash, repeat. But this day, when one of our oldest patients came in, something was different. This day, as I began to undo his wraps and we mindlessly chatted about his life and his precious cat, I noticed something. It was his socks. Not just any socks, but the same socks we had given him a week ago when he came to our clinic. These socks hadn’t even been taken off his feet once since we had last seen him. I asked him about it, and he began to tell me more of his story that he never felt inclined to share before. He had lived alone since his wife passed many years ago, which I knew, but he shared that the last family in the area, his daughter, recently moved. She hadn’t moved far, but it was deemed too far to make the usual weekly visit to help her dad. He only left his house to come to these appointments once a week. They were his only opportunity to speak to someone, to have a listening ear, to hold a conversation. He wasn’t bitter nor complaining, he was just happy to have someone listen. While working at this clinic, I met many lonely folks, and each time we did our best as a team ensure they had home healthcare or some form of community support. But frequently, people like this man would slip through the cracks, spending their days in an empty house, just waiting for Monday to roll back around so they could attend their weekly doctors appointment and feel less alone, even just for a moment. I realized then and there that this was my calling. To help those who were sick or suffering, yes, but also to make sure that these people are not forgotten. To make sure that their care doesn’t end when their appointment does. To make sure they know that they aren’t alone, and that there are people who care about them. This scholarship would allow me to pour all my efforts into studying, learning, and growing as a nurse. This scholarship would play a vital role in allowing me to continue receiving the education I need to help the people who all too often slip through the cracks.

Lauren loved watching football, mostly because she thought it was funny when the players fell over. She filled the house with laughter and it was hard to get a picture of her without a big smile on her face. She loved milkshakes, and each year our family still gets milkshakes from her favorite place on her birthday. She was about five years older than me, and was the oldest child of the four of us. She was nine when she passed away, and I was only four. My brother then became the oldest child, and I became the oldest sister. The typical older sister tasks were then passed down to me. This included things like teaching our younger sister how to braid her hair, how to play dolls the correct way (because when you are 10 years old, somehow there is a correct way), and of course, getting upset when she stole my clothes. I remember the day when the weight of this responsibility really registered to me: when I grew out of the last hand-me-down I had gotten from Lauren. Though I was only 9, I was devastated. I used to go into her old room at least once a month, and try on everything I could find in her closet. I begged my mom to let me wear her clothes, even when the sleeves were twice the length of my arms or the hems of her dresses dragged on the ground as I walked. When I inevitably grew out of each piece, I would refuse to let my mom take them from my drawers, even when the pant legs hardly reached my ankles. The day I grew out of her pink and blue striped jacket, the very last hand-me-down that fit me, I felt like my older sister was really gone. Oftentimes when growing up, and honestly, even now, I wondered what Lauren would think about how I am doing. Do I make her proud? Is she watching over me? Would she have done something different? Sometimes, it feels overwhelming, trying to make her proud. However, as I’ve gotten older, I realized how much that thought has had a positive impact on my life . It has always encouraged me to be the best version of myself I can. It’s motivated me to be kinder, to work harder, and to love deeper. Her impact on my life cannot be overstated. My most prized possession is a necklace I wear every day that has a pendant with her thumbprint on it. It’s my way of carrying her with me in every moment (even now that I have grown out of her hand-me-downs) because even though I no longer fit in her clothes, I could never outgrow needing my older sister with me.