My freshman year of college I rented a room from an elderly widow. Mrs. Tyler was in her early 60's, tall and plump with gray hair and a gentle smile. I was happy with the arrangement since her house was only five blocks from campus, she was a great cook and rent was less than half of what the dorm cost. But the primary reason I lived with Mrs. Tyler was because at 18, I was only 5'2" and weighed less than 100 pounds. The wild stories I had heard about dorm life made me nervous and I didn't want to spend the next four years being picked on like I had through high school.
Things went great between Mrs. Tyler and I for the first month. Because of my small size and youthful look (I still hadn't started shaving), she treated me more like a kid than a young man. But I didn't mind when she reminded me to stop playing video games and go study, or when she would tell me the snack I wanted would ruin my appetite for dinner. She would just pat me on the head and smile at me. Because of Mrs. Tyler, I didn't get homesick.
One day I was walking across the athletic field on my way home when two upper classmen slammed into me. I was so lost in my English 101 assignment that I didn't realize I had walked straight through a pick-up football game between rival fraternities. The collision knocked me unconscious and I woke up in the college hospital.
The first face I saw was Mrs. Tyler smiling down at me. I tried to sit up and a pain shot through my chest like fire. I winced and dropped my head back to my pillow.
"There, there," Mrs. Tyler whispered to me, "You've had a bad fall and need to take it easy."
She patted my head like she always did. It made me feel better and I drifted back into unconsciousness.
I woke up in my bedroom. Mrs. Tyler was sitting at me desk waiting for me to wake up. I didn't try to sit up this time, but I smiled at her and waved. I noticed my hand was wrapped up from my fingers to my elbow.