her name was maggie. (her name wasn& #39;t maggie.) she& #39;d been in the hospital for over a week, first with influenza, then pneumonia, then a lung abscess. her mom had been at her bedside, holding her hand, literally the entire time.

after several days, i gave maggie& #39;s mom some cash and asked her to go to starbucks and get me some coffee, to take as long as she needed, to get whatever she wanted for herself. i promised i& #39;d hold maggie& #39;s hand until she got back.

i left the hospital one morning after overnight call, and when i returned the next day, maggie was gone.

i wrote her mother a letter, letting her know how sorry i was for her loss, how obvious her love for maggie was, how i was sorry i hadn& #39;t been there at the end.

weeks--months--later, i got a response, hand-written on several pages of tear-stained notebook paper. she thanked me for everything i& #39;d done for maggie. told me how much it had meant when i stayed by maggie& #39;s bedside and forced her to take a break.

in the envelope was a picture of maggie from years ago, when she was maybe 18 months old. happy. smiling. alive.

please get your flu shot. for maggie. and for her mom.