Window

I wrote about my hospital experience a while back, and wanted to add a little bit more color and detail today. After visiting with my doctor for a check up this morning, I decided to mosey on over to Memorial Hospital for stroll down memory lane. A fierce storm like I experienced that late December, makes me appreciate the vibrancy of today's rainbow.

As I walked through the automatic sliding doors, I was immediately embraced by the smell and sounds of the hospital world. Memories of being bed bound and pain stricken were rushing in - not with fear and sadness, but instead, with a deep appreciation for God's miraculous healing.

I got to the elevators, and remembered the feel of the gurney underneath my small and broken frame. I thought about how it felt coming out of surgery - drugged up and in terrible pain. I remember hearing Mark and my sister walk beside me as they wheeled me into the elevator, and out onto the surgical floor.

I arrived in a very small room, which ended up being my home for the next several days. The first few days after surgery were a blur . . . aside from visits from the nurses and morphine doses, I don't remember much of anything.

I never much liked the feeling of being drugged up. There was something about the sensation of losing control that didn't appeal to me. Often times, it made me feel very afraid. "I don't like how this makes me feel," was my usual response. The medicine really took the edge off, but the out of body experience hardly felt worth it.

As I stepped onto the third floor this afternoon, I was surprised to find a large piece of plastic covering where the entrance to the surgical floor used to be. A sign indicated that they had moved to a different wing. My eyes followed the hall a bit further, and carefully landed on my favorite window.

I took a few steps towards what used to seem like an oasis. The blinds were closed today, leaving the hallway looking dingy. I took in a deep breath, and peeked my head through the plastic bars. Ah, yes. All of this was still the same. The tar on the roof below - same. The traffic rushing by about a quarter of a mile away - same. The variety of trees and plants submitting to the push of the wind - delightfully the same.

Again, pieces of what I experienced so many months ago flashed in my head. I remembered how it once took everything I had in me to walk to that window. And when I got there, I wondered if I would be able to get all the way back to my bed. The guard rail underneath my arms was at one time where I bared most of my weight, as my legs were too weak to hold me up. Hunched over, dizzy, weak, wracked with pain and full of fatigue - I used to stare out that window and wonder what normal life would be like again.

I remember thinking, "Those people driving those cars have no idea how fortunate they are." To be able to walk and sit down without hurting sounded dream like. To be free from the torture of the hospital, where needles were constant, vitals were like clockwork. Beneath my broken body, was a disheartened soul.

The funny thing is, before I went through all of that suffering, I was just one of those drivers myself. Before facing the reality of death, I hadn't realized the true measure of the gift of life. I too, was hurrying from one place to another - not realizing just how much every moment counts.

What have you gone through that has given you a different perspective on life? Was it tragic, painful or debilitating? Are you on the healing side of things, or are you still in the suffering stages?

Hold fast dear one. God promises that He will never waste a single one of our hurts. There will be a rainbow after every one of our storms.

And remember - the darker the clouds . . . the more vibrant the color.