A Cup of Cold Tea

"I was twelve when I ate my name."

I still remember how the words became a turning point for my cowardness. It came from an old man I took care of last summer. Around that time, I was doing an internship to help cancer patients in need of caregivers. His name was George, a 66-year-old man with a stage 2 leukemia prognosis. I called him "grandpa" for short. Fate brought me to know someone enthusiastic and funny like him. Until two months later, with the unexpected words that came from his mouth, he unlocked the key of his secret, as well as my fear.

It started with our first meeting. I was just from the nearby shopping mall grabbing a regular cup of milk tea when the head nurse pronounced me late for my first day. She was sneering at me while she pointed to my patient's room. The ward was on the very end of the eighth floor where no other visitors would come. I first expected the smell of antiseptic just like any other patient's room. Nevertheless, the moment I opened the door to his room, I could only sense a hint of alcohol but a fresh lavender scent coming from a glass pot. It was a bunch of purple flowers on the nightstand. The more I stepped in, the brighter the room went, and the more I could hear familiar tunes of "Let it Be" by The Beatles along with the hum of the man in bed.

There in the hospital bed laid the man in a green gown. His hand was struggling to rotate the volume button on the radio. The oxygen mask over his mouth was out of place. He must have not noticed my appearance until my jacket zipper clinked with the bedside alloy fence. The old man turned to me and gasped.

"Eleanor?" he asked.

I nodded. He put down the stereo and stared at my face for a few seconds. He asked another question, "Do you like tea?"

That was random. I never thought a patient would ask my drink preference at the beginning of our meeting. Therefore, I pretended not to catch what he was saying.

But it didn't stop there. He kept asking me the same thing every time I entered the room. The requests would either be tea-serving or my tea preferences. I started to assume that this guy had lost his mind. I did not care much about his silly questions though. Maybe this old man was obsessed with tea or just wanted some attention as my grandmother would do.

But he would not give up. Sure, I like tea, but what difference would it make if I said yes? My objective was to finish this time-consuming task, finish my internship, get a degree, and move to NYC for a new adulting life. Every time he asked, I would scorn my eyes and nod my head until he finished asking. Bore with it, Eleanor. This should pass soon.

After two days of not having other conversations than the topic of tea, I started to get annoyed and decided to just fulfill his request. I brought him a tea pack, the one I found on my grandmother's pantry. It was nothing special, just a Dilmah tea that would not need sugar to add, but I assumed it would fit his taste.

When I served it, he stared at the cup and did not do anything with it for five minutes, not even touching the cup. Did he not like it? Was grandmother's taste bad? Then, I started to worry. What if he got mad or complained about what I had done? My advisor would deduct my point or even send me to a place farther than here. Please, oh Heavenly Father, I wanted to pass this term with peace.

When the steam was almost too faint to see, he said, "Come drink with me. The tea is not too hot for now." So, we were waiting for the tea to be warm and he asked me to join him. But I scorned again at his request. I was full because I had milk tea this morning, but I