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I’ve never been good with hospitals. I shiver when I walk their corridors, reading scary signs on doors—Blood Drawing, X-ray, and Pathology. I feel vulnerable, small, and human. And yet over the past month, as I’ve come to visit my father in this vast Veteran’s Hospital outside New Haven, CT, something strange is happening.

My perception has shifted. Always in the lobby, along hallways, and in rooms are male patients. A few are young, but most are older, sitting in wheelchairs, walking with canes, some using walkers. Many have wives and family members with them. Patriotic pictures and slogans line the walls.

There are also light touches. A man plays tunes on a lobby piano. Care dogs walk along corridors on leashes. Sounds of laughter can be heard from the cafeteria.

The nurses in my father’s ward are kind and quick to joke. They flirt and compliment my dad on his “Frank Sinatra blue eyes” which brings a delighted grin to his face. Dad has advanced Parkinson’s and I’m happy to see anything that makes him smile.

The other day Mom and I wheeled him to the recreation room where a heavyset veteran played boisterous hymns on a piano. A young African-American woman, hair woven in tiny braids, sang along, her voice sweet and clear. A white care dog named Bentley trotted in, allowing all of us to scratch behind his ears and touch his wiggly tail. I’ve heard he’s trained to jump on beds and cuddle with patients.

I look around this vast room. Dozens of model airplanes hang from the ceiling. A huge fish tank sits against a wall. Books, games, and artwork abound. There’s a tiny greenhouse. Every Wednesday a special brunch is served and once a month, there’s a Courage Ceremony with medals given to those Vets the staff deem most deserving. Everything’s designed to help people forget they’re in a hospital.

My parents and I play Trivial Pursuit. Dad’s mind is sharp as ever and helps my mother beat me. I think of how many memories involve my parents and me sitting around a table, just talking. With staff’s permission, Mom feeds my father what he’s requested from the outside world—a toasted corn muffin with melted butter, a Starbucks coffee drunk through a special straw. I watch as he relishes every mouthful.

I watch my 82-year-old father and think of the young man from New Hampshire who sailed to Japan at 17 during the Korean War.  I remember pictures of him in his white sailor uniform, young and brown-haired, smiling for the camera. Now life has brought him full circle with other vets, a few who were in the same place at the same time. Sometimes they swap stories.

After a while, my father becomes quiet and my mother and I note his fatigue. The same nurses who flirted and kidded before now ease him to bed, murmuring words of comfort. I hug my parents goodbye and exit through this labyrinth of hallways bustling with patients, nurses, doctors, staff and visitors.

A thought strikes me as I walk along. What looked like such a formidable place when I first entered is really a thriving community. What I thought of as a sad facility, a dead end for the sick and dying is actually very alive, buzzing with life, full of hope and healing. I’m impressed by the diversity of it all, by the constant river of young and old, black, white, and brown, men and women, those who need help and those who dedicate their lives to helping.

Outside the February air’s cold, but the sun’s strong. I fetch my keys from my purse and glance back at the huge silver complex behind me, full of men like Dad, hunkered down, some for short stays, some longer. Some will leave. Some won’t. My father’s fate is uncertain.

I walk to my car, feeling sad he hasn’t felt fresh air in a month. It’s now a big deal to have a Starbucks coffee and toasted corn muffin. And yet the nurses laugh and care for him. There’s the sound of pianos and nuzzle of a dog’s wet nose. There’s a greenhouse and artwork and books and games.

And strangely, this hospital soothes not only my father, but my mother and me as well. I get into my car remembering how scared I was when I first came here.  Now the thought of coming back is, at least, easier.

(Postscript: My father passed peacefully away in July, 2015).

 

What are your feelings about hospitals? Comments are always welcome and if you’d like to receive postings by email, just press here. Thank you so much for reading and sharing!

Comments(18)

  1. Reading this post brought forth multiple emotions for me. I am glad to hear that our veterans, including your father, are receiving this level of care. I am not comfortable in hospitals, though I'm not sure many of us are. You have led me to think about volunteering at a hospice or senior living facility, a thought I have had more than once but fail to follow through on.

  2. Wow, that's exactly how I feel wandering those halls. I want to do more but also haven't quite made the commitment. Maybe one of these days.

  3. I work for a surgeon who has his rooms in a hospital. What felt really alien to start with now feels quite normal. I love how friendly the nurses and admin staff are – it’s like we’re part of an extended family. My brother was in the coronary care unit for a few days and it was nice to feel comfortable popping down to visit him instead of being way out of my comfort zone like I used to be with hospitals. I’m also glad your dad had somewhere nice to be looked after in.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 6 years ago

      Leanne, I have a terrible fear of anything medical, which I think would be cured if I did what you did. There’s something about going to the “belly of the beast” that somehow makes things easier. I’m sorry about your brother. I hope he’s feeling better.

  4. I hate hospitals, but I have had some amazing nurses over the years. They work so hard for so little.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 6 years ago

      Rena, Nurses are amazing. I have unending admiration for the medical community. They helped my father so much.

  5. I have never had a bad feeling about hospitals until we had a gravely ill granddaughter. Children’s hospital broke my heart. So many sick kids. That will stay with me for the rest of my days.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 6 years ago

      Michelle, I can’t imagine a hospital for sick kids. I have never experienced that. All we can do is be grateful for the people who work at them who try to heal these poor little angels.

  6. Hospitals vary. I’m so glad that your father and your family had a good experience in one. If you are there to have a baby (I worked in L&D so it was a HAPPY UNIT) that’s one thing. If you are a cancer patient (My husband is) that’s another.
    As an RN when I do visit someone in the hospital I’m always poking around wondering what’s in the IV, what therapies they are getting. Medicine can save lives, can birth lives, can prolong lives. Hospitals are there to help.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 6 years ago

      Beth, I agree that hospital experiences vary. I’m so happy to walk out of one, that for me it’s a plus. As I said, I have nothing but admiration for nurses. To me, you’re all very special people.

  7. I remember the year my mother was in hospital. I came to appreciate so many things even in my sadness.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 3 years ago

      Carol, Funny how challenges will do that.

  8. This brings back so many good memories, Laurie!
    Mom was in a home for the last five years of her life. Also suffering the effects of Parkinson’s. And she had angels who watched over her. think the best example was as she lay dying. She had rubbed a little sore on her heel and her nurse said, “Oh that be comfortable. Let’s take care of that.” And put a little, round bandaid on the sore.
    When my sisters and I were dressing her for her funeral a couple of days late, it was still there. We left it as a tribute to the angels in Mom’s life.
    And so, on resurrection morning, she will see it and know someone cared. Even as she was living her last moments.
    Thank you for this. Those ministering angels that walk the hospital corridors don’t get the recognition they deserve!

      • Laurie Stone

      • 3 years ago

      Diane, What a beautiful story! Pardon me for saying, but you should write a blog post on that. Made me a little misty-eyed.

  9. It’s so hard to lose a parent at any age. I’m glad your dad had good care at the end. Cherish the memories.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 7 months ago

      Judy, Thanks so much. Yes, they did take good care of him.

  10. I am beyond grateful that you Father’s last months were filled with joy! Bless those wonderful people who make a hospital a place of caring, rather then scaring!

      • Laurie Stone

      • 7 months ago

      Diane, So very true.

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