“My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”
Maya Angelou
My heart is heavy. My Ms. Hopkins passed away yesterday
afternoon, and the weight of this loss is settling in. She was more than my
Resident Council President—she was my heart. I loved her like a mother and
would do anything for her. Every time she asked for something, I would sing to
her—changing the lyrics of Whatever Lola Wants to Whatever Ms. Hopkins Wants,
Ms. Hopkins Gets. She loved it. I loved her.
For over seven years, she has been a light in my life. Her
laughter was pure joy—the kind that fills a room and stays in your soul. She
carried herself with faith, patience, and kindness, always.
Yesterday, I was at work—on a Saturday, which isn’t my usual
day. But I was there. As I was leaving, I noticed she had a card in the mail,
so I stopped by her room. She was in bed, and when I asked how she was, she
said, “I’m not feeling well.” Her hand was clammy when I touched it, and she
told me she had been throwing up. I stayed with her, holding her hand, offering
comfort. Her roommate had been sick earlier in the week, and I thought it was
the same bug. Before I left, I told her, “I’ll see you on Monday, Ms. Hopkins.
I love you.” She answered, as always, “I love you too, darling.”
An hour later, I got the call. Ms. Hopkins was gone.
I don’t know how to process this yet. I just know that I am
deeply sad. But I also know that I was meant to be there yesterday—to hold her
hand, to tell her I loved her one more time, to have that final moment
together. Maybe that was a gift, for both of us.
I miss her already. I always will.
