As I walk the halls of my hospital, I pass many who wear the confused look of travelers in a strange land. They’re like refugees or tourists on a terrible trip, shuffling papers as they walk along sterile corridors, reading each sign as they pass. They’re lost, overwhelmed, and scared. They don’t know where things are or how they work. I try to make eye contact. I smile and send up silent prayers for comfort. I point and say, “Turn left, then left again, then right, and you’ll see the elevators.” If I have time, I walk them to their destination. I understand. I’ve been on that same awful journey.
These shipwrecked souls have recently seen a family member’s health passport get stamped “Disease A” and have been directed into the bowels of the hospital for admission. They are ill-prepared to navigate this unfamiliar world, and their minds are racing with a thousand questions: What now? Who should we call? What did that nurse say? Who will be the doctor? When will I see my loved one? How are we going to pay for this? Where is the elevator?
