When I was a child, I was often alone and found solace in reading and writing. I loved true stories about real people doing important things. My favorite book was a biography of Florence Nightingale. I loved reading about all the wonderful things she did as the founder of modern nursing. She inspired the healer in me and, eventually, my early career as a registered nurse. Her example gave me a sense of life’s infinite possibilities even when my own life seemed narrow and lonely.

Still, my childhood was not always gloomy. My parents, Edward and Eva; my maternal grandparents, Regina and Sam; and I lived in the suburbs of New York City and were often influenced by its cultural sensibilities. From an early age, I was told that I looked like Elizabeth Taylor, but only in adolescence did I understand that it was my sultry green eyes inherited from my father, combined with my dark eyebrows and thick, dark-brown hair inherited from my mother, that bore the resemblance. I had the innate ability to capture people’s attention even before I learned to speak. I’ve continued to have this ability throughout my life, and even though I’ve never taken advantage of it, I’ve subconsciously felt blessed.

My bedroom was on the second floor of our pink-shingled, suburban home. My bed had a blue-and-green paisley quilted bedspread with a big, brown cork bulletin board above it featuring photos and poems. Through the window overlooking the backyard, I’d sometimes stare out at the birds to see if they were sending messages. There were all sorts of birds—blue jays, robins, sparrows, and hummingbirds—hovering near the red flowers that Mother had planted and maintained with her green thumb, which unfortunately I did not inherit. As an adult I have been extremely talented in killing the hardiest of house plants.

I lived in that same house until I left for college. I looked out that same bedroom window when, as a teenager, I was having my first LSD trip, which I did in response to my grandfather’s death. I remember feeling as if I were having an out-of-body experience and speaking to Grandpa and other loved ones who’d moved into the next realm. That was more than fifty years ago.

Propped up on my childhood bed sat my family of dolls. I cared for them every day, pretending to change, wash, and feed them. My favorite doll was called Tiny Tears, which was a popular doll in the 1950s. She had the magical ability to shed tears from two small holes on either side of the bridge of her nose. This was made possible by feeding her water with a small baby bottle and then pressing her stomach. I tried so hard to make her happy; I couldn’t bear to see those tears come from her eyes, which, to me, signaled that she was sad.

For several years when I was young, my maternal grandparents lived with my parents and me, their bedroom being right beside mine. My grandmother, Regina Reinharz Klein, was my primary caretaker and a huge inspiration. It was she who taught me to type, and I wrote my first short story on the Remington typewriter perched on her vanity. My creativity was set free on that typewriter as I traveled to imaginary places in my mind. Sometimes I read my stories aloud to my dolls.

Caretaking came as naturally to me as it did to my grandmother. She not only taught me how to type and appreciate books, she also taught me how to love and follow my heart and my instincts. Then, when I was ten years old, she died by suicide.

It is often the case that we tend to appreciate people more after they die. They also seem to come mo