Here's the thing about hospital doors. If they could tell you what they've seen, you would be amazed.
These doors don't discriminate. They have seen wonders and miracles. They have seen tragedies and heartbreak. Sometimes they barely open in time for a trauma to run in. Sometimes they can't open soon enough for a parent to see their child. Every person who crosses that archway has their own story.
If only these doors could talk. They'd tell you of the horrors of accidents and crashes. They'd tell you of the tangible heartache from the mother sobbing on her knees. They'd tell you of the secret tears of the staff and the way their heart breaks every day. They'd tell you of the struggling lungs' each raspy breath, the babies hearts that never beat, the old mind that will never recover. They'd whisper the heartache after heartache, and death after death.
They'd shout the new lives they saw come into the world. And tell of the lives that were saved. They'd show you the smiles and laughs and hugs. They'd play movies of steps being taken again and of families being reunited. They'd show you the love and the peace that surrounded the rooms. They'd tell you of the millions of miracles they see every day.
If only you could hear what they hear, and saw what they saw. Maybe then, you'd realize just how special a hospital is.
