{An Open Letter to a Life-Changing Experience}
I have to preface this letter by saying that I spent the day today in a writing professional development for my school district. During which, we were asked to complete several writing tasks because, hey, we can't ask our students to do something we wouldn't do ourselves. Anyhoo, while I was writing, I realized that I had written something worth sharing----maybe. I am not promising that this will change your life- but it is about an experience that changed mine...
Dear Centerpoint Hospital,
6 months ago you opened your arms to my sweet mother- taking her into your family without question, without judgment. For you, it was like any other night in the emergency room. Your waiting rooms were bursting- not just with people, but with deep emotions. I remember thinking how tired the automatic doors must become after watching them open for the 100th time in a matter of minutes. It seemed that while waiting people found it especially hard to sit and be still. Each time your doors opened a little piece of the outside world would flood the room; a little piece of normalcy. Yet just as the door opened, it would close bringing in another patient or another family member with worried eyes and a hurting spirit. Thank you for teaching me patience.
I remember thinking how grateful I was to be sitting next to my amazing husband. He handled every bend in the road with sensitivity and courage. He held my hand when I needed it, but cracked jokes when I need that, too. I remember being grateful for my dad, who I had never seen look so worried, yet so strong at the same time. He led us through every situation with the same logical and compassionate attitude that he always has. Thank you for helping me be grateful.
On January 26th, 2012 you made my mother part of your history. She is now engrained in you very differently than she is in us. In you, she is a number, a file, an account. She is one of many that came that day. You didn’t know her until she arrived in that ambulance. You didn’t know the patient wife or caring mom she was (and still is, partly because of you). You didn’t know her abundance of love and understanding. However, you began to know her pain. You began to learn about her in medical terms- Multiple Sclerosis, spasticity, baclofen. You began to learn, but so did I.
You and I grew close throughout the 3 weeks that we spent together- during those late nights during which we attempted to camp in your waiting rooms. All of us, dad, Tyler, Tim, and Em, laying on “beds” in the middle of a dimly lit waiting room- staring at the ceiling hoping for a moment of rest but knowing it would not come. I began to learn about your basic existence- when doctors and nurses rotated, when to expect the overly-joyous courtesy cart to squeak through, and which receptionists enforced visiting hours and which did not.
But beyond that Centerpoint, you taught me lessons about life that I will carry with me forever. You taught me about the kindness of strangers during the most difficult times. You placed me situations to share and mourn with people I didn’t know. You placed me in situations to celebrate and cheer with those same people. You see- you taught me that even in the darkest of times there are small glimpses of light that allow us to remember why we are fighting, why we are pushing, why we are hopeful.
You taught me that you are a place that the sick go to get better- but it turns out that we are all sick in some way, to some degree. Not only did my mom leave you better than when she arrived, so did I. You helped me grow in my constantly evolving walk of faith. You taught me to let go of my pride and, sometimes, rigid exterior to let others guide and assist me. You taught me to find good in all people and all situations- even the ones we don’t, or can’t, understand. You renewed my faith and appreciation of the fact that each one us does have a carefully written plan for our own journey. But most of all you taught me, you showed me, that our journeys are not always easy- they are not always beautiful and fancy. Sometimes our journey is hard and feels terrible. Sometimes we feel like giving up.
It’s been 6 months, but I am still living the life you helped me learn to live- a life that is less fearful and more trusting. There is good everywhere. There is good in every situation. This, you taught me.
Sincerely & With Gratitude,
{She}
Dear Centerpoint Hospital,
6 months ago you opened your arms to my sweet mother- taking her into your family without question, without judgment. For you, it was like any other night in the emergency room. Your waiting rooms were bursting- not just with people, but with deep emotions. I remember thinking how tired the automatic doors must become after watching them open for the 100th time in a matter of minutes. It seemed that while waiting people found it especially hard to sit and be still. Each time your doors opened a little piece of the outside world would flood the room; a little piece of normalcy. Yet just as the door opened, it would close bringing in another patient or another family member with worried eyes and a hurting spirit. Thank you for teaching me patience.
I remember thinking how grateful I was to be sitting next to my amazing husband. He handled every bend in the road with sensitivity and courage. He held my hand when I needed it, but cracked jokes when I need that, too. I remember being grateful for my dad, who I had never seen look so worried, yet so strong at the same time. He led us through every situation with the same logical and compassionate attitude that he always has. Thank you for helping me be grateful.
On January 26th, 2012 you made my mother part of your history. She is now engrained in you very differently than she is in us. In you, she is a number, a file, an account. She is one of many that came that day. You didn’t know her until she arrived in that ambulance. You didn’t know the patient wife or caring mom she was (and still is, partly because of you). You didn’t know her abundance of love and understanding. However, you began to know her pain. You began to learn about her in medical terms- Multiple Sclerosis, spasticity, baclofen. You began to learn, but so did I.
You and I grew close throughout the 3 weeks that we spent together- during those late nights during which we attempted to camp in your waiting rooms. All of us, dad, Tyler, Tim, and Em, laying on “beds” in the middle of a dimly lit waiting room- staring at the ceiling hoping for a moment of rest but knowing it would not come. I began to learn about your basic existence- when doctors and nurses rotated, when to expect the overly-joyous courtesy cart to squeak through, and which receptionists enforced visiting hours and which did not.
But beyond that Centerpoint, you taught me lessons about life that I will carry with me forever. You taught me about the kindness of strangers during the most difficult times. You placed me situations to share and mourn with people I didn’t know. You placed me in situations to celebrate and cheer with those same people. You see- you taught me that even in the darkest of times there are small glimpses of light that allow us to remember why we are fighting, why we are pushing, why we are hopeful.
You taught me that you are a place that the sick go to get better- but it turns out that we are all sick in some way, to some degree. Not only did my mom leave you better than when she arrived, so did I. You helped me grow in my constantly evolving walk of faith. You taught me to let go of my pride and, sometimes, rigid exterior to let others guide and assist me. You taught me to find good in all people and all situations- even the ones we don’t, or can’t, understand. You renewed my faith and appreciation of the fact that each one us does have a carefully written plan for our own journey. But most of all you taught me, you showed me, that our journeys are not always easy- they are not always beautiful and fancy. Sometimes our journey is hard and feels terrible. Sometimes we feel like giving up.
It’s been 6 months, but I am still living the life you helped me learn to live- a life that is less fearful and more trusting. There is good everywhere. There is good in every situation. This, you taught me.
Sincerely & With Gratitude,
{She}
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