First of all I want to apologize in advance for any autocorrect-o’s. As this was written at the hospital on my phone (which btw hates me).
I am writing this as I sit here in a hospital chair watching a elderly woman whom I take care of sleep fitfully in the emergency room. I am waiting to see what is wrong with her, and feeling anxious because I feel that she is coming to a turn for the worse in this long life she has had. I know the hospital is working on helping her but I can’t block everything from everyone here out. The pain and sadness and yes even the compassion and love that family’s and the dedicated nurses and doctors have. It jumbles up and crashes over me like a wave.
Ever since I was young, five years old or thereabouts I have hated hospitals. Not just for me being in one but anything to do with one. I was very sick as a child. I spent weeks in Children’s Hospital in Boston with a at the time a rare and relatively unstudied disease. My fear of needles comes from that time, as I was pretty much a guinea pig and was poked and prodded more than anyone that age should have to be. I am grateful now of course that I lived near to the best place to be if you are sick. Boston.
I have ended up in a hospital too often for myself and with others, even though I actively try to avoid having to go there. One of my jobs, though, is working with elderly and mentally and physically disabled people. It ends up being unavoidable. It makes me sad having to sit here and know they are uncomfortable, in pain, and possibly scared. Then there is also my own troubles with being in a hospital to add to that already big emotional tsunami.