From the moment I first heard her words, I loved Karen. My mother was dying of breast cancer; she was bedridden, in pain and frightened. Karen, a nurse, came one cold, early spring day to meet my mother and me.

Karen looked directly into my mother's eyes as she spoke to her: "Mrs. Leary, we'll be able to keep you comfortable." Karen's clear, assured voice, her bright red hair, twinkling blue eyes and strong, competent hands guided us forward.

Karen worked the night shift. Karen, my mother, and I talked in my mother's small, darkened, lamp-lit room; its walls were the boundaries of my mother's physical universe. In the many long hours of the night, some spliced apart by my mother's pain and suffering, Karen brought the world's beauty to my mother with zest and wit. She described the changing seasons outdoors, arriving costumed as a green-faced witch on Halloween; she watched "Braveheart," "Singin' in the Rain" and her daughter's wedding video with my mother. She told funny tales about her everyday experiences and made my mother laugh. She listened to my mother's stories of her life's loves and losses and shared her own.

When my mother began to get closer to death and yearned more dearly for life, she wanted to leave the confinement of her bed. Karen gently advised, "If we move you, we run the risk of paralysis or death. However, having said that, if you still want to get out of bed, I'll help you tap dance on the ceiling every night."

Karen says our beloved dead become angels who watch over us, but she showed me that there are remarkable, irreverent, earthbound guardian angels as well.