A Day at the Hospital

Some people say that my job is easy.
"There's no challenge. All we do is walk in the room, slam the tray down for the patient, and then write the time we get out of there."
I disagree.
I don't just walk around a hospital and see food and friendly nurses.
I see people who suffer.
There are patients who are covered in tubes and bandages, breathing only by machines. I see people gasp in pain as they are pricked and poked. I've seen patients throw up right in front of me. There are patients with casts and bruises and slings. Some of their voices are muffled by their bulky oxygen masks. Others cannot even say their own name.
I can't help them.
That's a challenge.
This morning on my usual delivery run, I walked into a room and immediately a machine began screeching incessant beeps. I was frightened.
I was frightened? I couldn't imagine how the patient must have been feeling. I walked to the nurses' station and told them what happened. They could tell I was scared. A nurse went into the room with me. I set the tray down and as I looked at the ticket, I recognized the name. I knew this woman.
Margie Chapman. (name has been changed)
She lay motionless with her mouth wide open, gasping for each breath. I hardly recognized her. She had once been a lively lady in the dining room at Chancellor Gardens. She always ordered Green Tea, a bowl of ice cream, and she was notorious for taking food up to her room.
And now? She's here. I hope for not much longer.
This wasn't the first time I had seen one of my dear elderly friends. Many people I love have come to the hospital. I don't like to see them here. They used to be so excited to see me serve them in the dining room at the assisted living center. But here they are scared. So am I.
I don't think it's possible to say that my job is simple.

Yet for every room with a suffering patient, there is a room with a little piece of heaven inside.
There are people who glow.
I see mothers who look into the eyes of their child for the first time after nine long months. A sweet affection can be felt when I walk in the door and see them cradling them. I see fathers rock their new babies with tender hands as they look at their wives with adoring eyes. I hear the other children say, "I'm a big sister now! Isn't my baby brother cute?"
There are patients who take my hand and look me in the eyes and say, "You're Lindsey with the beautiful smile! Thank you for bringing me my lunch!"
I've seen a woman whose entire left side was paralyzed. She could eat and move without help, and most importantly, she didn't let it stop her from smiling and saying thank you.
I once saw an old man sit for hours with his wife. He said he would help her eat.
He did until she passed.
There are days when I feel like my efforts are not enough.
I wish I could do something more to help the people I see. There are things that make me cry sometimes.
Although my job is not an easy job, it is a wonderful job. Why?
I give my heart. I see remarkable people who have overcome harsh obstacles. I see new life; a breath of fresh air.
I see miracles, really. Everyday.