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What Do You Bring into the World?
The most powerful medicine I witnessed in a hospital wasn’t prescribed by a doctor.
For the past two months, I have spent much of my time in a hospital room with my sister.
She has Crohn’s disease that went undiagnosed for almost a year, even though she went to doctor after doctor for help. She didn’t have one of the symptoms of Crohn’s that doctors assumed she had to have.
Many days were 24-hour shifts. Some nights were long, spent sleeping on chairs or a sleeper sofa, with interruptions throughout the night for medication, diaper changes, or viral checks that would bust the room every three to six hours.
Some days were hopeful. Others were filled with uncertainty. During that time, I met countless doctors, nurses, nursing assistants, cleaning staff, food service workers, and technicians.
Most worked exhausting eight to 12-hour shifts, some doubling up when they needed extra cash. They cared for patient after patient before heading home to their own families.
Hospitals are extraordinary places.
They are filled with people whose job is to care for others, often under pressure, with little rest, and while carrying the emotional weight of life-and-death situations. Some of them even gave me their personal cell phone numbers so I could update them about my sister’s condition.
Among all the healthcare professionals I met, one stood out.
His name was Anderson.
A nursing assistant with only five months of experience, Anderson looked a little like Will Smith wearing glasses. But what made him memorable had nothing to do with his appearance.
The first thing you noticed about Anderson was his presence. His attitude seemed to arrive several yards before his body did. Before he entered the room, before he spoke a word, you could feel his warmth, his optimism, and his genuine concern for the people in his care.
The day I met Anderson, he came in to say hello to my sister. He remembered her from three weeks earlier when she was on his floor. On this day, he was not assigned to her. But he walked into my sister’s room carrying something that no hospital can prescribe, and no insurance company can reimburse: a healing presence.
My family is made up of strong women. Like many women, we are often more comfortable giving help than receiving it. Asking for assistance can feel uncomfortable, and receiving care can feel vulnerable and, many times, painful.
Yet Anderson had a gift. He helped without making anyone feel like a burden.
That day, he changed her diaper because she didn’t make it to the bathroom in time; her limited strength and four pumps connected to her body delayed the move of putting her legs on the floor, standing up, taking a moment to ensure she could, and walking in small, slow steps to get to the toilet—which we take for granted.
He didn’t leave the room to call the woman assigned to my sister. With a smile wide enough to touch earlobes, Anderson made her feel like she mattered, diarrhea and all.
Anderson offered support without creating dependency.
He cared without creating discomfort.
He made difficult moments feel lighter simply by bringing energy into the room.
When he left, my sister and I were both smiling.
And that made me think that we are all transmitting something. Long before we speak, people feel our presence. They feel our patience or our frustration. Our gratitude or our resentment. Our kindness or our judgment. Our peace or our anxiety.
Whether we realize it or not, our thoughts, emotions, and attitudes travel ahead of us; some five inches, some five yards.
We often focus on what we do in the world.
What job do we have?
What title do we hold?
What have we accomplished?
But perhaps a more important question is:
What do people experience when we walk into a room?
Do they feel welcomed?
Do they feel seen?
Do they feel judged?
Do they feel safe?
Because sometimes the greatest contribution we make has nothing to do with our skills, knowledge, money, or achievements. Sometimes it is simply our presence.
A smile.
A kind word.
A calm spirit.
A willingness to care.
After two months in a hospital, I learned many lessons about health, healing, resilience, and gratitude.
One of the most important came from that young nursing assistant named Anderson, 26, young enough to be my son. He reminded me that while we may not always control our circumstances, we do have a choice about the energy we bring into them. And sometimes the greatest gift we bring into the world is ourselves.
So today, I leave you with a question:
What are you bringing into the world?
Because whatever it is, it arrives before you do.
If this reflection touched your heart, please like, comment, and share it with someone who may benefit from it. I would love to hear from you.
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