A Serious Place

There’s something about a hospital that reduces life to bare-bones basics in record time. Clean, white linoleum. Spotless carpets. Wall murals. Blue scrubs. People walking around with stethoscopes snaked around their necks.

This is a high-stress environment. Shrieking sirens, flashing lights – ambulances rushing in and out. Helo teams taking off and landing. Walkers, wheelchairs, crutches. I.V. poles, oxygen tanks. Gurneys. Mountains of forms. Endless waiting rooms with endless waits. Enough criss-crossing corridors to make a honeycomb look simple.

A hospital is a serious place. You don’t hear much laughter here. Most people speak in muffled tones with tight voices. The rare smiles you do see are usually thin, brittle.

People don’t generally come to a hospital when they’re hale and hearty and doing well. Those admitted are seriously ill or injured. Some die.

Life seems tenuous here. Worth fighting for. But modern medicine isn’t infallible. Doctors, no matter how skilled or well-schooled, can’t cure every ill, heroic efforts notwithstanding.

Life gets down to basics in a hospital.

Sibling spats and squabbles that soared to Himalayan heights yesterday sink into insignificance today. The socks and shoes littering the bathroom floor? The unfinished homework? The missed soccer practice? Tonight’s dinner plans? These things will be addressed in due time, but none are a high priority today. We’re at the hospital. Our 14 y.o. son has a plate and nine screws in his femur, broken in three places due to a mishap with a rope swing at camp in July.

This is Nathan’s second follow-up visit to the hospital’s Orthopedic clinic. It’s a 4 to 5 hour RT commute, and thus an all-day undertaking every time we have to bring Nathan here. More x-rays today – six – in preparation for a second surgery next week. Somehow meatloaf just doesn’t seem all that important tonight.

I scribble down something off a framed photograph of an ocean sunset that catches my eye:

"Courage does not always roar. Sometimes, it is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”

Oh, yeah.

Story ID:	2792
Written by:	Kristine L. (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Diary/Journal Entry
Location:	-- USA
Year:	2007