Heather watched over me like a mother hen. I am a seventy-six-year-old, and after the surgery I had a flare of my late-age incontinence problem. At least six times in her grueling late-night shift I had to ring for Heather. Each time she was there in a flash, her face totally absent of any irritation and instead graced with a steady smile of compassion, not an ounce of artificiality in it. At the end of her shift Heather stopped by to pat my hand and wish me a speedy recovery. Indeed, for me, she was an "Angel of mercy."