The new burn center at Columbia St. Mary’s in Milwaukee has a gorgeous view of Lake Michigan. It’s been open for a couple of years. I remember being in the old part of the hospital thirty years ago, in a building right next door.
Room 648. The one with the cross on the ceiling, anchoring me to reality and hope.
But I never remembered a room number, at least not until a couple of days ago on a visit back to a place that holds a plethora of images and frozen moments in my mind.
I toured the new center, but not to marvel at the latest equipment or discuss layout and design. My mission was to find someone who remembered me, a longing for validation that runs so deep in us. I wanted my existence – my survival – to matter – to someone.
After so many years.
High expectations and perhaps a little narcissistic, but we all have those days. We are human.
Memories of my nurses are more of shadowy figures looming in and out than concrete pictures, maybe because my eyes were so messed up. I had an impression of one gentle soul who tried to mitigate the hurt of excruciating burn care on a daily basis. Someone I trusted. Her shift gave me a measure of peace.
Rose. I turned a corner and there she was, among the volunteers. The hug ran deep, cutting through scar tissue and time, right into my core. She reminded me that my room number had been 648. And that I had grit and tenacity way back then.
I needed those words. That empowerment. To be remembered…
Blessings on the medical professionals who understand that their care and nurturing matter.
Has lifelong impact.
Validates.
Builds.
Heals.