Almost 9.2 million beds, and what for?

We have a friend fighting for his life in a nearby Intensive Care Unit.  I cannot believe what he and his family members are going through, and the strength with which they go through it.  The other day, as we walked out of his hospital room toward the elevator, I wanted to lose it.  This family unexpectedly lost its oldest son in February.  That this mother is going through another tragedy is beyond crushing.  It is gripping.  Ripping.  The stuff of a heart-wrenching novel-turned-movie-script only real on Hallmark Channel.  A person feels so helpless, even guilty, in such situations.  But just as I was about to give in to emotion, we encountered a woman, possibly in her late 20s or early 30s, getting on the elevator and crying hysterically.  We asked what was wrong.  She replied, “My baby is going to die!  He’s going to die! They said he is brain dead!” I don't know why, but I asked her, “How old is your baby?”  Between sobs, she gasped, “Five. He’s only five years old.”  My heart didn’t just drop. It plummeted.  We have a grandson that just turned six. Those tears I had tried to contain now washed down my cheeks. Oren asked if there was anything at all we could do for her.  She said, “Pray.  Pray for my baby.”  We walked with her out of the elevator and all the way to the front door. I felt at times like she was going to collapse.  I asked her if she wanted a ride somewhere.  She said, “Someone is coming and I don’t know what I’ll do.  What will I do?”

I am a loser in such situations.  I would have given her a ride to Minneapolis if she’d have asked for it, but she didn’t.  She said someone was coming for her.  I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t know what to do.  But when we drove away from that hospital, I thought about all the life stories playing out in there.  One hospital in one city in one state in one country—among what, thousands?

I don’t know why, but I looked it up.  There are 6,120 hospitals and 917,000 hospital beds in the United States. They are not just buildings separated by rooms holding mattresses with sheets and pillowcases. They are life stories playing out—lives beginning, lives healing, lives ending. Miracles and tragedies.  Lives changing and families searching, praying, begging, rejoicing. Of course, structures and beds are the least of it all.  It is healthcare workers, 22 million in the US, that guide these life stories.  My hat is off to them.  I don’t know how they do it.  How do they help people going through such hardship?  How do they manage to live their own lives knowing their hearts have to skip a beat each time they return to work and face the challenges that come with cheering patients and families on through some of the hardest times of their lives? I am thinking they are better than me.  That they know what to say and what to do.  That they have a direct line to God, and HE is at the helm. And through Him, they know how to project hope—and also how to deliver it. This Thanksgiving, I am praying for the 917,000 lives being treated, guided, saved, lost and found in those 6,120 hospitals. I am giving thanks for each and every one of those 22 million healthcare workers, for it is because of them that they - and we - can have hope. That we can believe in miracles for our friend and the young mother in the elevator.  For patients everywhere, in all those hospitals and in all those beds, this Thanksgiving and beyond: My prayer is that dawn will come. Happy Thanksgiving.