#011 Hospitals

No one likes hospitals.

The past few weeks I have spent many hours in the hospital.  Not for myself, but for my mom.  Some of my readers may know that my mom’s health struggles have been chronic and rather debilitating.  She has been in and out of the hospital for years, and this time it was to get a defibrillator implant as  a protective measure against a heart attack.

As I was sitting in her hospital room, listening to the beeping of the heart monitors, the paging of doctors and the rasping cough of her roommate, I started to get depressed.  I felt so human.  I knew that only a few years, a lifestyle of just a couple poor choices or maybe even just a few bad genes separated me from the hospital bed next to me.

To be honest, I hate being around sick people.  I mean, I love the person, but I really can’t stand to see someone suffer.  When someone throws up near me, I gag.  If someone starts to cough violently, I have to leave the room.  I know to some this may seem very insensitive and rather rude, but I can’t seem to see past the germs and bodily fluids.

As I watched my dad take care of my mom, helping her crawl to the bathroom, wiping her nose, and stand by her side as she threw up, I realized something.

This was the “for better or worst” part.

Twenty five plus years ago, my parents stood at an altar and promised “for better or worst.”  While the organ music played and the candles flickered, they promised that no matter what, they would stand by each other’s side.

I am sure that very few glowing couples think about the possibility of that future hospital room, where the sound of a heart monitor is the only indication that the person you love the most is going to make it.  They especially don’t expect it to happen before they hit their fifties.  They might not think about the fact that you may someday be the only person doing the serving because the other person is too weak to even go to the bathroom by themselves or take a shower without assistance.

Fast forward to present day, where I am sitting in the corner trying to maintain my composure as I hear my mom heaving with violent gasps for air. I watch my dad lovingly stroke her head.  He doesn’t care about the spit or the germs or the sobbing.  He is just keeping his promise.

I’ve never heard my dad complain.  Ever.  And as much as I am sure he hates hospitals as much as I do, he deals with it.  Because he has a promise to keep.

For better or worst.