“Home” in a Hospital

The halls were dimly lit at four am. She slowly maneuvered her way past nurses who were rushing to get vitals before their night shift ended. As she passed each nurse, physician, EMT, or other health care provider, each sent her a reassuring message — a nod from one, a small grin fighting back tears from another. They were her cheerleaders as she laboriously dragged this heavy object down the dimly lit corridor, an object more valuable than the crown jewels to her sister. As she neared her sister’s room she heard the words that made it all worthwhile: “She is still with us, you made it in time.”

It was no easy feat to lug a small tree, covered with twinkling lights, from its resting place in a ceramic pot by her sister’s apartment across town. She had been spurred on by her sister’s last wish, to once again gaze at the beauty of this tree before she died. As her sister recognized the frail branches, a calm expression spread on her face, softly illuminated by the tree lights. Her eyes were sparkling in the light’s reflection and they spoke her message to everyone in the room: “It’s ok now. I have what I needed.” In that instant, a despairing sense of loss was replaced by a hopeful moment of peace.

This one bejeweled object of nature held potent memories for her sister. Maybe they were of decorating at Christmas, or making ornaments, or simply the gift of its natural beauty. Maybe on those days, its branches symbolically offered quiet strength. Here, in the hospital, minutes before death was to come, it was an object that represented “home.” It transformed a stale hospital room into a sanctuary. It mattered.

Her sister’s last breath was drawn in the comforting presence of friends and family — and tree. Was it worth the ridiculous effort to bring a potted tree in a ceramic pot all the way to her room? She didn’t have to wonder. She knew the answer, and she was glad.