Rarely do the two cross over. Today, I’m making an exception.
For me, a typical day is a bit of an oxymoron. However, whether for employees, general public, or media, most of my duties center on writing. Shocking, I know. As I work to put together articles and publications, I’m often forced to venture out of my quaint marketing bungalow into the “real” hospital.
A few months back I helped executives deliver employee-of-the-month honors to a nurse in the intensive care unit. As I snapped pictures of the recipient and her cheerful colleagues, I couldn’t help absorbing the images in my peripheral vision, the kinds of images you expect to see in an ICU.
Chatting blissfully with a registration clerk, I pause as the operator’s voice bellows over the PA: “Code Blue, NICU.” In other words, a newborn has stopped breathing. We pause, then resume our conversation.Taking a short-cut through the emergency room to interview a nursing director, I’m met by an obstacle course of gurneys and beds inhabited by patients. I’d stop to ask each if they’re OK, but I already know the answer.
The everyday realities of a hospital stand in stark contrast to the reality of my world.
In my world, a “code blue” consists of ordering 1,500 hospital manuals to be printed, and then—despite meticulous proofing—discovering we had printed an incorrect phone number. It seems bad at the time, until I deliver a stack of manuals to the ICU and remember what true pain is all about.
But that’s my job. Manage the image of the hospital and try not to get weighed down by the devastation that perpetually surrounds me.
On June 10 San Joaquin Community Hospital officially opened The Aera Clinic—the outpatient section of the first full-treatment burn center in Bakersfield.
From the neatly packaged hors d’oeuvres to glass canisters of rainbow-colored gumballs, the celebratory mood was immediately evident upon my arrival to the north side of campus. Over the next couple hours the community joined with hospital leadership to dedicate this valuable new service line. As usual, I was in the midst of it all: taking pictures, herding media, and never really soaking it all in.
As the festivities began to die down I walked into the clinic with my colleagues to check out the newly christened interior. That’s when we met Judy (not her real name).
Less than two years ago Judy was cooking in her kitchen when her hair caught fire. Her husband quickly ran in, smothering her burning body as best he could. From the waist up, Judy’s body and head were covered with third-degree burns. After multiple surgeries, her thighs are now noticeably scarred too—victims of skin grafts used to repair her torso.
But the physical pain is dwarfed by the mental obstacles she faces on a daily basis. After the accident, her husband left her. In her words, “He couldn’t look at me anymore.”
Judy rarely goes out in public. After the accident, it took her months to look at herself in the mirror. Only through her 9-year-old grandson’s insistence that she was beautiful did she finally gather the strength.
Recently, she’d heard that Bakersfield would now have its very own burn center. No longer would she have to endure the lonely two-hour train rides to Fresno to receive the treatment she deserves. That was why she came today—to say thank you.
I had the fortunate privilege to pray with Judy. Tears streaming down her face, she gave me a hug I’ll never forget—the kind filled with unforgettable, newfound hope. She also helped me to remember that no matter what my “reality,” the real reality—the people around me—should never be ignored.
And that, that’s why I—we—are here.
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