I can remember the very first time I met Ginger. She walked into my hospital room and said, “Hey babydoll, I’m Ginger, and I’ll be your nurse today.”

I could feel her positive and nurturing energy the second she walked in the room.

I’ve had Ginger as my nurse several times over the course of my cancer treatment. In fact, I have had her so often, that I had her schedule memorized. She always worked Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and then worked at her bookstore the other days of the week.

Her bookstore.

I would say it was her pride and joy, but it was evident that her children were her pride and joy and her husband was her hero.

But yes, her bookstore…

I believe any and all of Ginger’s patients would tell you they knew she had a bookstore within the first 10 —no 5— minutes of interaction with her.

She was so proud, so passionate.

If I am honest, the first several times she told me about her bookstore, I just pretended to care. I’m not an extrovert, and I didn’t have much energy to spend in conversation about something I had no interest in learning more about.

But after a while, it stopped bothering me. I started to love when she would talk about her bookstore, because she would become so happy. I had now formed a relationship with her, and was genuinely interested and cared about her.

I related her love of her bookstore—to all the things in my life that I was passionate about that I am (at the moment) not able to do. I was happy that she was able to live her life to the full and do two things she truly loved—-owning her book store and nursing.

Ginger was a genuine person.

She not only shared about her life, but would always ask about mine. About my “sweet babies.”

Every time she left my hospital room she would say “Just call me if you need anything, ANYTHING, sweet love.”

And I don’t know, I liked that.

I know it’s probably a southern thing to be greeted with a “hey babydoll” or “hi love” and “bye sweat pea.”

But for a weary cancer patient, the extra umph of love and tenderness was appreciated.

The last time Ginger was my nurse, she had just recovered from knee surgery.

It was her first day back to work, and I was one of her first patients.

Apparently she had been in pain all day, and I never knew it.

It was still a “hey babydoll and call me if you need me sweat pea.”

It was telling me how excited she was about owning McBride’s Bookstore.

It was hearing different stories about her children.

It was taking care of me with a smile and motherly warmth about her.

It was hearing silly things her husband had done over their years of marriage.

I asked her how she was feeling after her surgery.

It was only then that she told me she was in pain. She had been in pain all day, and never once, let me pick up on it. Ginger was strong. She was a strong, loving woman.

I was in the hospital this past Thursday. I woke up that morning, anxiously awaiting to hear “hey baby doll” as my heavy hospital door opened and my nurse was about to greet me.

But I didn’t.

And I wondered.

Where was Ginger?

Ginger wasn’t there, because Ginger died in a car wreck a month ago.

I didn’t get to hear “Good afternoon love” or have her bring me a sprite “just because.”

I have this running list of all these things I want to do for people who have impacted me along this journey.

For Ginger, I planned to write her a card and bring some of my Dad’s books to her store for free so she could sell them— as a “thank you” for being a great nurse.

But I never got around to it.

I never got around to thanking her for being an amazing nurse and person.

So if you hear me greeting you with a “hey baby doll” or “bye sweet pea” it’s because of Ginger.

And maybe one day, I can donate MINE and my Dad’s books to McBride’s Book Store of Trenton, GA.

Who knows, maybe there will be a chapter in it titled: “Hey Babydoll and Bye Sweat Pea.”