The morning-shift nurse wrote her name and the date on the dry-erase board in my husband’s room at Johns Hopkins almost a year ago.
I remember pausing when I saw it: the nurse’s name was Yvonne, the date, August 25. At first, it felt like nothing more than a coincidence.
My mother’s name was Yvonne and August 25, 2025 would have been her ninety-ninth birthday.
Years earlier, as my mother lay dying, I had quietly asked her to leave me signs that she was still with me. Since then, I have felt her presence in small, ordinary ways. A favorite Chopin prelude. A cardinal appearing unexpectedly. A feather on the ground. A butterfly lingering too long in my path. I don’t know if I truly believe in signs, but I know what I feel when I see them: a sense of her, gentle and unmistakable.
So when I saw the nurse’s name and the date together on that board, Yvonne, August 25, it struck a chord. It felt less like coincidence and more like a personal note from her.
My husband was taken for a procedure almost immediately after the nurse arrived, so there wasn’t time to talk about it, or even fully process what I was feeling.
I went down to the koi pond to have breakfast and write in my journal. I keep two journals, one for my daily thoughts, and one devoted entirely to Matt, filled with notes from his long series of hospital stays.
I had only just settled in when my phone rang. One of Matt’s doctors was calling. A liver had become available for Matt. The doctor asked me to meet him in Matt’s room so he could explain the next steps.
I hung up and sat there for a moment, trying to absorb the words.
Yvonne. August 25. My mother’s birthday. A name. A date. A life-changing call.
Years ago, I had asked my mother to send me signs that she was still with me. I had never expected anything clear or certain, only something, maybe a memory that I might recognize in my own way.
As the day progressed, it felt as if everything had aligned into something I couldn’t ignore. Not proof, not certainty, but a thread of connection I could feel running through it all.
And as I stood up to walk back to Matt’s room, I carried with me an unexpected sense of calm, as if my mother was somehow already there, walking beside me.
