This is Where I Live (Part II)

Now, where was I?

Ahh. Number Two.

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about the patients at the hospital. My role in 'patient care'. There are three I spend more time thinking about than any others but I'm only going to tell you about one, because she illustrates the joy and tragedy of the two-edged sword best of all.

I've found that working in a hospital is only exactly what you let it be. Irritating. Inspiring. Heartbreaking. Affirming. A lot of the people I work with allow it only to be a job in the very basest sense of the word. Someplace they go to be angry at their lives, rude to the people around them, a place to complain about the small pains in their lives while ignoring the large pain all around them, spending more time stirring the pot than in any attempt at seeing the patients, - a job they could do in any sector. A job that I don't think they should be doing in a hospital. (but that is only one of my personal soapboxes that I won't be climbing up on today)

What I mean by 'seeing' the patients is hard to explain but it's not about just knowing their names - most of the time I can't remember a patient's name five seconds after seeing it - it's about, well, SEEING and letting that sight affect their day. And yours.

A few weeks ago we had a lady come through from the emergency room who had fallen down while she was out doing her Thursday figure skating.

Here's the inspiring part. Every Thursday she figure skates. Not just your run of the mill turn or two around the rink but figure skating.

What's so great and inspiring about that? She's 93.

Ninety-three. Think about that for a moment and let this amazing woman in. Let her make you vow to be like her when you're even half her age. Let her inspire you to greater things. Just think for a little bit about how you could make the choice to allow this woman to touch you.

Now, think about why she was in the emergency room. She broke her hip when she fell. She'll never figure skate again. Oh sure, they'll fix it but at that age? It'll never be strong enough for her to go back to her weekly spins.

If this weekly joy for her is the main joy in her life, the loss of it may very well kill her. Even if it doesn't she's probably lost the main thing that's kept her vibrant and young to this age.

So in a way, that single tumble is the beginning of the end of a life.

A life that 30 minutes before was amazing. A life that filled me with awe.

A life that turned around in a moment.

A double edged sword.

I'll never see that woman again but in a very real way, I've seen her. I'll never forget her and at some point in my life, remembering her may very well give me a reason to make a different decision. A decision that could keep me young and vibrant to a jolly old age.

The awe and the heartbreak of her have now become a piece of me and I am the better for it.

I doubt that most of my co-workers could say the same.