Notes from the Hospital

You don't learn to be grateful for what you have until life knocks you on the ass.  I've tried to be zen buddha during the good, quiet times of my life and display an attitude of gratitude, but somehow the minutia of the daily grind takes over and I'm back to logging how many almonds I've eaten, complaining about traffic or the weather, and fretting over the theme for my son's second birthday party...in August.

My mom has been in the hospital for a week.  She's been in and out of the ICU, in and out of tremendous pain, and in and out of consciousness. As my sister and I have ridden this horrific wave with her, we've forgotten the frivolous and been immensely grateful for the small stuff: a deep breath, a hello, a full opening of the eyes, a bowel movement.  My mom is now on the mend, but life for her will be different, at least for a little while, if not longer.

In all aspects of life, people have it much better and much worse than you.  I'm always very aware of this fact, and use it as motivation during times of complacency and solace during times of pain.  I was feeling particularly bad about my mom's situation yesterday morning.  I needed to walk, I needed a breath, I needed to look out a window and remind myself of the outside world.  I left the ICU, and standing at the elevator, a middle-aged gentleman struck up a conversation. We exchanged pleasantries and shared the whos and the whys of our visits.  He was there for his father-in-law who had Leukemia.  We got to the lobby, said farewell, and I took five minutes to snap myself out of my pity party.

I left my mom just before ten last night.  Out in the hall, I pressed the elevator button and closed my eyes.  When I opened them, that same man was there.  He gave me a half-smile, just as a woman around the bend broke into loud, anguished sobs.  "That's my sister-in-law...he died," he murmured.  I muttered my condolences and kept my head down as he stifled his grief through floors 3, 2, and 1.  We were both visiting loved ones.  His was gone. Mine was not.  I drove home, and rather than feel sad about the immediate future, I felt appreciative and thankful that I would get to do the hospital shuffle again tomorrow.  Bring on the bad coffee.  Bring on the uncomfortable chairs.  Bring on the redundant questions and relaying of the same story over and over.  Bring on the tubes and the monitors and the charts and test.  We are lucky. 

I've read that a miracle is no more than a shift in your perception; a choice to see a situation differently and find the joy in it.  As this week begins, I wish you a miraculous Monday.