Working at a Hospital

Working at a hospital, you think about sick people a lot. You cannot help it. It surrounds you. It is your job. It is your world.

You walk from your car in the morning and are greeted by the site of an emergency helicopter delivering another patient, too ill to be transported by a family member or an ambulance. The chopper touches down just feet from where you stand. Its arrival is without fanfare. No one stops to watch. It is commonplace. People are use to its coming and going. You say a prayer for the family of this one who just arrived.

You approach the building and there are a dozen men and women gathered at the entrance. Some sit on benches, others lean against concrete barriers while some sit in wheelchairs wearing hospital issued pajamas. They have ID bands around their wrists. Some are enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. A few are talking loudly on their cell phones, reporting the most recent conversation with the doctor for all to hear. Most are on their second morning cigarette, prolonging the return to their semi-private rooms. You say a prayer for these who would rather be home than in this building.

You travel down the hall and your quick pace comes to a quick stop. You are behind a man who suffers a neurological injury. Working in the VA, you cannot assume his ailment is a stroke or progressive neurological condition. It is possible that this soldier experienced a trauma during the heat of battle, in a far off land. You are always reminded of the sacrifice men and women have made over the ages. The slow speed in the hall provides the appropriate opportunity to say a prayer for the man and give thanks for his service. As you make your way around him, you notice the tilt of his head, the weakness of his right arm and the limp of his right leg. You know these deficits indicate years of therapy and constant effort. While limiting and restrictive, he has fought against this condition and it shows.

You get on an elevator and find a woman standing in the corner. She wears a hospital gown, a pink bathrobe and yellow slippers. You cannot determine if her labored breathing is due to some pulmonary condition or the fact that the tube coming out of her nose and held in place with tape blocks her air. Her hand tightly grips the IV pole at her side, as if it is her best friend and she does not want to let go. Certainly, she has grown accustomed to its presence. She uses it as a walking stick, a support. The pole holds two plastic bags of fluid that swing from the hook. One bag is bulging, the other nearly empty. From the bottom of the bags, another tube hangs limply and runs to the fold of her arm that, wrapped by a large bandage. She exits the elevator, coughing into a Kleenex, pushing her long, thin friend beside her. As she leaves, you pray that she can breathe easier.

You think about sick people a lot. You cannot help it. It surrounds you. It is your job. It is your world. If your eyes are open, you cannot help but pray, a lot.