It was just another busy evening in the emergency department, the kind of night where everything blends together—sounds of beeping monitors, rushing footsteps, and the quiet hum of people trying to manage their pain. As I made my rounds, an older gentleman was brought in. His hair was stark white, and even though his suit had seen better days, there was something distinguished about him. He had that presence, like someone who had been important once, or maybe still was. But as I approached his bed, I could see the fog in his eyes—dementia, most likely.
He looked up at me, and with a kind of urgency in his voice, he said, “Excuse me, miss, could I get an espresso?”
At first, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. Espresso? In the ER? I tried to gently redirect him, offering water instead, but he waved me off, shaking his head.
“No, no. I need an espresso. I can’t think clearly without it, and I have so much left to write. I need to finish the story of my life before I forget it all.”
That stopped me. I’ve worked with many dementia patients, but there was something about the way he said it—so earnest, so desperate to hold on to the pieces of his life before they slipped away entirely. He was caught between the fading memories of his past and a mind that wouldn’t cooperate anymore.
I told him I’d see what I could do about the espresso, though we both knew the ER wasn’t exactly a coffee shop. As I got him settled, he started talking. Bits and pieces of his life story poured out—grand adventures, moments of success, and glimpses of a life well-lived. But there were gaps, places where the names of friends and places had drifted beyond his reach. He’d light up with excitement at a memory, only to falter when the details escaped him.
At one point, he asked, almost as if seeking my validation, “Do you think they’ll remember me? Will they care about my stories?”
I don’t know what it was, but something about that question hit me hard. Maybe because, as a nurse, I sometimes wonder the same thing. Will the people I care for remember the kindness I’ve shown? Will it matter? I took his hand gently and said, “Your stories are still with you, and they matter. Every one of them. And I’ll remember them, too.”
As the night wore on, and the emergency department began to quiet, I overheard him still asking for that elusive espresso. I had to smile. I couldn’t bring him an actual cup, but I decided to play along. I filled a small paper cup with water, walked back to his bedside, and with a bit of flair, said, “Your espresso, sir.”
He studied it for a moment, then grinned and whispered, “You’re clever, aren’t you?” We both laughed, sharing a brief, lighthearted moment that somehow cut through the heaviness of the night.
He took a sip, closed his eyes, and said, “Perfect. Now I can think.” And for a little while longer, he continued sharing his stories, sipping his "espresso," as if it really had cleared the fog in his mind.
By the end of my shift, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He’d come in a stranger, yet somehow, we’d connected in a way I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about his dementia or the fading memories—it was about his desire to be remembered, to hold onto something meaningful. I could relate to that, more than I’d care to admit.
When I got home, exhausted from the night, I brewed myself a cappuccino and settled into my favorite chair by the fire. I reached for my journal—a Harper Ease creation, of course—and began to write. I wrote about him, about his stories, about how much he wanted that espresso. I wrote about the beauty of his thoughts, even as they slipped through his fingers, and how it reminded me of the way we all want to be remembered for something.
As I sat by the fire that night, the warmth and quiet offered me a moment of clarity. I realized that his request for an espresso wasn’t really about the coffee—it was about connection, about the desire to share our stories, even when we feel them slipping away. In that moment, I felt like I had become part of his story, too. That’s when it hit me: I wanted to create something that could inspire others to capture their thoughts, to tell their own stories. And that’s how Espresso Your Thoughts Daily Journal was born—a journal to honor his memory and encourage others to reflect, write, and connect. The rest, as they say, is history.
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