Somewhere between the phone ringing and that distinct hospital smell, my feet moved one in front of the other and I travelled on adrenaline and instinct. Last night, as I answered the phone, I heard “Beth, can you come over? I fell” from my very injured Grandmother. Yes, my dear Grandmother had fallen and was in need of help and medical attention.
As I sat with her in a FULL hospital emergency room, I looked around. “Everyone here has a story,” I thought to myself. I had spent the morning speaking at a church, on the plight of orphans and telling stories of pain and suffering around the world. Now, I sat and was face to face with suffering of those in my own backyard. Suffering of children, elderly, and everyone in between.
A child sat in the corner vomiting. In between his episodes of misery, he would sit on his loving mother’s lap, playing with her hair as he breathed right in her face. Nearby a man sat in a wheelchair with ice on his leg. He didn’t look so bad, but of course I imagined what happened to him to be in the ER there with me that night. Yes, everyone here had a story.
A fragile looking immigrant family came in with a panicked way about them. Their little girl was hallucinating, vomiting, not making sense, and had a racing heart beat. In the most blatant display of unprofessionalism I have seen in some time, the male nurse came out to the room and very aggressively questioned them in front of everyone. He asked them what happened. The father spoke and said they had given their daughter medicine but they didn’t know what it was. They had gotten it in Mexico but it wasn’t medicine prescribed to this specific little girl. He said his daughter had worms and someone gave him this medicine to give to her. He kept saying they thought it was “Vitamins or something” but really had no idea what exactly the pink substance in the bottle was. After the nurse embarrassed this family in front of the crowd, he walked them back to a room as he rudely called for a translator to help him communicate with the family. The little girl looked lost, scared, and so vulnerable.
In between adjustments of the icepack on my grandmother’s head wound, more people walked in to the ER. A large drunk man came in. He had a deep laceration above his eye. I assumed he had been in a fight, but I really don’t know. I wondered if he would be in another fight before he left the waiting room. After what seemed like an eternity of his obnoxious outbursts, wandering around, yelling, and his displays of profanity, many in that waiting room were probably more than willing to take a swing at him to just get him quiet. About that time, I overhead nurses discussing a quickly approaching ambulance.
A young man came in alone with what looked like an obvious broken hand. As he made his way to an empty seat, he winced in pain. He took his seat amongst others who would frequently make their way to the bathroom from their illness. One woman waited so long with her young child, she just gave up and walked out. So much suffering and pain.
Soon a young woman walked in that broke my heart. Her face was so very broken and swollen. Her eyes looked empty. Her neck had marks around it and a knot, that no doubt pulsated as it bulged from her swollen body, told a story in itself. She looked like she had clothes on that were not her own, but just thrown on. She was in pain and was humiliated. Her mother or friend followed behind with a small infant that seemed to be this broken spirit’s child. Soon the sheriff came and (once again…no privacy) I overheard enough details to know this was a domestic violence case. I thought about her all night. She looked broken in so many ways. I wanted to cry for her as I sat in that room. As this was all going through my head, my sister leaned towards my ear and whispered, “I just want to cry for her…she is humiliated.” If you think of that woman and her child, please pray for them. For whatever reason, our paths crossed in an ER waiting room, maybe it is so you can pray for her today. She looked crushed both physically and emotionally.
After a few hours of tests, stitches, and moans of pain later, Grandma was released. My sister and I left when we heard she was given the okay to leave and my mom was taking her home. I stopped for gas on the way home. It was about 10:00 PM or so and it was probably 30 degrees outside. Cold and windy. I pumped the gas and looked at a nearby McDonalds restaurant across the street. My heart once again sank.
A young homeless woman, carrying a sleeping bag and backpack with a light jacket on, was scoping out the area trying to see if anyone was watching her. She didn’t see us looking at her across the street. When she thought it was safe, she made her way into the dumpster.
That night, I couldn’t help but give thanks for the many blessings I received that day. I had a lot to be thankful for. I had a lot to lift up as well. I had seen so many in pain. So many suffering. So many lost. I thought about how Jesus cares for and loves each one just as much as the other, just as much as you and me. I wondered how many didn’t even know about this love. I thought about how a part of me, while in that waiting room, wanted to put my coat over my head to escape the noise, the smell, the germs, and the sights that seemed to threaten me in a way at the same time they depressed me. I thought about how this was just a sliver of what the Lord sees everyday.
I have no idea why He allowed the circumstances that led me to the hospital that day. I do know there is an underlying purpose in it though. The lost, the hurting, the cold, and the lonely are all out there, and they need our prayers today. I tell you their stories because I believe somehow that is crucial to His purpose in it all. If you are open to it, maybe their stories will encourage you to take action, say a prayer, or speak to you in some way.
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