How Being in Hospitals with People I Love Changed Me
Life has given me my fair share of being in hospitals while loved ones are unwell, sometimes critically and in life threatening situations, and sometimes for routine appointments.
It’s not easy.
When someone you love is in hospital, especially when it’s serious, it stirs something deep inside. It brings up layers you may not even know are there. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.
I want to share a slither of my experience. Not because I have answers, but because sometimes hearing someone else’s story can help you feel less alone. Maybe it offers a thread of support or a quiet moment of recognition of what you’re going through.
There is nothing more fragile than being with the possibility that someone you love may be nearing the end of their life. Everything slows down. Everything matters. This is the raw stuff. The human stuff. The life and death stuff.
In fact, just this week someone I love is going through planned surgery. And perhaps writing this is my body’s way of coping with all the feelings, the hope, the faith, the uncertainty, all the emotions that come with it - for the person and the family I love so deeply.
When my loved ones are in hospital, for me, in my body, it feels terrifying. There’s a resistance in every part of me. A deep sense that none of this should be happening. Just pulling into the hospital car park or walking through the doors can feel overwhelming, like my insides might leap out of my body and sprint away. I don’t think anyone truly wants to be in a hospital - maybe the staff, though I imagine even they have days when it’s hard to be there too.
It brings up how fragile life really is.
It brings up fear, terror, deep sadness, and a love so strong it physically hurts.
It brings up your own mortality.
It brings up the feeling of being completely helpless - wanting to wake up from a nightmare, only to realize this is the reality.
There’s no future when someone you love is in a critical condition. There is only now. The moment you’re in. That breath. That heartbeat.
I’ve prayed, I’ve bargained with God. I’ve whispered pleas I didn’t even know were inside me.
Your whole nervous system goes into something different. Your breathing changes. Your voice can wobble, sometimes the tears flow and even sob out of you like they’ll never stop. Your body moves you into survival mode. The sweat can pour out of you as the adrenaline flushes fast. You can feel hot and cold within minutes of each other. Feel hunger or no appetite. Everything feels loud and quiet at the same time. It can hit you in waves - like being tumbled over with no warning, barely able to come up for air.
And yet, somehow, you keep going.
There are moments where something beyond you seems to guide you. Where you just know what to do. I remember the time I had to put someone into the recovery position. They were unconscious, and even though it had been decades since I’d learned how, my body just did it. It came back in an instant. It mattered. Or the moment I knew exactly when to call the ambulance. And that timing helped save a life. That Divine guidance was 100% there and it had taken over.
These experiences stretch you. They expand you. You move past what you thought were your limits. You discover parts of yourself you didn’t know were there.
In the middle of it all, your body is tracking every detail. Your mind is focused on one thing: please let them be okay. Please let them come through this.
And sometimes - they do. And you are brought to your knees. The tears flow. The relief floods your body. They are here. They are healing.
And sometimes - they don’t. I’ve been there, too. The pain and grief feels endless. The heartbreak is physical. And yet, even then, some part of me knows they are no longer in pain. They are spared from more internal digging, more treatment, more quality of life challenges. They are free and healed.
In both paths, I’ve grown. Not by choice - but by life. And I’ve come to understand that we don’t forget these moments. We integrate them and if we are fortunate we get to convert the experience into wisdom. We learn how to live alongside the experience. Not by hardening, but by softening in a new way. By letting the experience move through us and change how we show up in the world.
Loving more deeply. Being more present. Sitting with others in their hard moments, not trying to fix it, but being with them. That matters. But you don’t just spring to that point, it takes time, it takes a willingness and the courage to be in the intense pain and to feel it, to not numb it away, to allow it consume you, sometimes for days, weeks, and months, possibly even years. But there is the very real possibility that it might transform your life and you.
In my most acute and intense times, very few things matter, I have discovered though that there are 4 key things my body needs:
My family - their love and willingness to show up and be there, day and night, sometimes all through the night - meant I wasn’t alone. And as an only child, that matters. That’s a fear that can sit quietly in the background. We shared the experience together. Sometimes in silence, just sitting beside one another as the moments came and went. That kind of love is steady, quiet, reassuring, healing, and very, very real.
Water – Always by my side, taking regular sips. It helped somehow. (And yes, I always need to know where the nearest bathroom is please and thank you.)
M&S Swiss chocolate bars – I do not know how many I’ve eaten during hospital visits. I may have single handedly contributed to the M&S share price rise though.
Breathing – not a formal practice, just one intentional breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth, a little longer on the exhale if I can. Some days that exhale is shaky, almost reluctant. But I listen to it. It’s real. That’s all that got me through.
Depending on the timing, sometimes I could sit with a guided gratitude meditation from Calm. Not because things were okay, but because something in me needed to remember what was still there - skilled experienced hospital staff, loving family and friends, kind humans, loving faces, the comfort of someone’s hand in mine, a hug that stopped me collapsing in a heap, the air in my lungs, the trees I can see from the window, the nice smelling soap in the bathroom. Just basic things.
There are things I’ve experienced during these intense life moments that I simply can’t explain. No science, no reasoning, no art form will ever give me a clear answer - and yet, I’ve come to recognize them for what they are: Divine interventions, God working in the moment. One example stays with me. It was a critical situation:
We were waiting for the ambulance, unsure if it would arrive in time - unsure if my loved one would still be here when it did. A few months earlier, we had waited over 12 hours for an ambulance. Now, in a different and far more urgent situation, I had no assurance one would arrive in time. I knew they were doing everything they could behind the scenes - but how many other emergencies were unfolding in that moment? What if there weren’t enough ambulances or staff? What if… what if… My panicked mind spun through so many scenarios, I could barely hold myself together. In the thick of that intensity, for some reason, I picked up my phone and opened my emails - why I have no idea. However, an email arrived right in that moment, as if on cue. The subject line read:
“While you are waiting, God is working.”
It stopped me in my tracks. It brought stillness into the chaos. It gave me the reassurance I didn’t even know I was searching for in that moment. Later, after the emergency had passed, I went back to find the email. I searched for it everywhere. It was gone. I couldn’t locate it. Did I delete it? I checked trash, not there. No trace.
Did I just receive an email from the Big Guy upstairs?
What I know now is this: there is something greater than all of us at work in this life. Something that moves in quiet, miraculous ways. I’ve seen enough now to believe that with my whole being. So yes, I welcome those moments now. I accept them for what they are. Messages. Guidance. Love. God. Universe. The Power Above. And honestly - someone wise once said, “We all need someone to talk to at some point in life… so why not God?”
Throughout all of my traumas and life and death experiences, and frankly other life challenges too, I find myself quietly whispering:
Don’t let this be wasted.
Don’t let this take away from my life.
Let this add to my life in some way.
And even in the aftermath, when someone I love has gone - I’ve had days, months, even years of wondering: Will I be okay? Will I ever smile and laugh again? Will I ever enjoy life again?
Slowly, that answer became yes. Not by going back to how things were, but by letting it all integrate within me. Letting it crack me wide open, smashed into a trillion pieces. And somehow, light began to shine into every cell of my being, beginning the quiet, steady work of regeneration and repair.
Over time, the pieces came back together - not as they were before, but changed. The marks are still there, but now they’re filled with gold, much like the Japanese art of Kintsugi. Not broken, but remade. Not the same, but somehow more whole - because the journey has been honored, tended to, cared for. Meticulously, gently, and diligently repaired through both effort and presence.
My experiences have shaped how I love. How I work. How I walk through the world. It’s a big part of why I do what I do with Birch Cove. Our capacity to grow, expand, and heal as humans is vast, but sometimes that growth journey is terrifying and you need people along side you who can listen, can hear your journey, and hold a loving space for you as a human and as you process what you are going through.
When I feel helpless, I pray. I do. I can’t help it - it’s just what my body and heart reach for, and I trust that. It’s the mechanism that kicks in when there’s nothing else to do. And I’ve found that my prayers are powerful, they are always answered. Not always in the way I hope, and not always in a way I understand. Some answers I meet with grace, others I wrestle and fight with, and question everything. But still, I pray.
I also take other small actions that help me feel connected to myself, my deeper roots, and they help me feel like I’m doing something. When someone I care about is going through something difficult, I often turn to this simple meditation from Dr. Joe Dispenza. It’s 15-minutes of holding them in my heart, sending love, and staying connected even from afar. Here’s the link if it helps you too. GoLov-20 Meditation by Dr. Joe Dispenza.
If you or someone you know needs some support, reach out. Life is hard at times. But there are good people in the world who will be sent your way, I call them “Human Angels.” They appear just at the right time.
Disclaimer: The information and services provided by Birch Cove are for educational purposes only and are not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Birch Cove is not a medical provider and does not treat, cure, or prescribe for any medical conditions unless otherwise stated. Always consult your physician or qualified healthcare provider with any medical concerns. Birch Cove assumes no liability for actions taken based on the provided information or services. Product links may be affiliate links, meaning Birch Cove could receive a small commission on purchases.
