A worn penny, the tiniest of denominations, taunted me to pick it up with an implied offer of bringing good luck. It sat on the carpet beside my left foot. I decided to leave it there for someone else who might need more luck than me.

I was sitting at the hospital, waiting for my husband who was undergoing a battery of tests. I had the easier part, the waiting and worrying part. A life-changing diagnosis finds us travelling out of state for medical appointments. Some illnesses can be cured; the “incurables” can only be “managed.” My beloved husband falls into the latter category. We are doing our darndest to beat back the dragon, to slow progression of a scary neurological disease. Length of life is not impacted. Quality of life might be. Worry and sadness are tempered by the kindness and professionalism of my husband’s interdisciplinary team. 

I bought myself a cup of coffee for $1.50 in the hospital cafeteria. I limped to a sunlit atrium, my right foot healing from a fractured metatarsal. I snagged a table, pulled out my journal and began writing. A parade of patients with canes, walkers and wheelchairs passed by. The word “patient” stems from the Latin word “patior” which means “to suffer” or “to endure.” I noticed the intermingling “healers,” nurses, doctors and technicians dressed in green, mauve and purple scrubs. Then, a sort of “Slim Santa Claus” – with blue eyes and a white beard – whizzed by. Our eyes met briefly and I thought, “Is that…?”

It was a few days before Christmas. A hospital volunteer played guitar and sang carols, occasionally off key. I appreciated her efforts to calm nerves by providing distraction amid stitches, scans, infusions and foreboding tests.

“Slim Santa Claus” passed again and as I looked into his twinkly eyes, I asked, “William?” Yes. It was my friend who moved away to this neighboring state several years ago.

Turns out William, a cancer patient, was awaiting a post-surgical scan. He carried a Poland Spring water bottle repurposed to hold pinkish barium-citrate. His sips were guided by a small piece of paper taped to the bottle, reminding him to drink specific amounts in 20-minute intervals. He was diligent in checking his watch to make sure he didn’t miss a requisite gulp of the strawberry-flavored concoction.

William is a retired special educator and school principal who grew up in a Montreal Anglophone family. Boarding school followed by stints in the Navy and eventual college inspired his deep commitment to his faith and community service. He not only volunteers for humanitarian programs, he’s created them  — small-scale, but nonetheless significant projects to feed hungry neighbors and ease the journey for youth in foster care. 

“At eighty-two, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been,” William said. “I go to the gym. I take classes. I volunteer.” Even with cancer.

William asked about my husband’s illness with deep caring and compassion. He knew what questions to ask and what comments to refrain from. I silently wondered, is such awareness instinctual or must it be learned from experience?

Before parting, we caught up fully on health and, most importantly, life. I reached for the penny beside my foot and handed it to William. “This is your Lucky Penny. May your scan go well.”

The U.S. minted its final batch of pennies on November 12, 2025. The coin’s usefulness in commerce expired long ago. As we begin 2026, I invite you to dig into your change jar and carry a few Lucky Pennies in your pocket for random tossing. You just might be spreading some unexpected joy, helping a stranger, or a friend, to make a hopeful wish.

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