I've never really understood how the martyrdom of a saint became a holiday where we buy all of our loved ones copious amounts of flowers, chocolates and heart-shaped antacids that say "Hug Me." But I suppose that stranger things have happened (*cough* Resurrection Sunday and the Easter bunny *cough*).
It is no secret to anyone who has known me for more than a year that I honestly have never liked Valentine's Day. Even in elementary school when we passed out little paper cards and had parties, all the holiday ever did for me was remind me that I was not the popular kid, that I didn't buy the valentines that everyone else thought were cool and that love in this world was full of nasty strings.
One could easily say that I hated Valentine's Day with a relentless passion (slightly ironic, but very truthful), but I guess everything must end eventually. Here I am on February 14, 2011, surprised and yet relieved that I can say that my hatred is gone.
Oh, I'm still very single. I'm still not popular. And I didn't buy a single gift for anyone this year. So what changed?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Pacing
Life has a funny way of slowing us down sometimes. I haven't written in a little over a month because I always told myself I didn't have the time, that I would do it later. I've had so many ideas, but they've all just culminated in vague memories of thoughts and random tidbits of epiphany saved as text message drafts in my cell phone.
So why did I decide to write at 4 a.m. on a Wednesday morning? Well, the answer is simple, yet complex. Suffice it to say that I am at present sitting in an ER waiting room with a very dear friend who has gotten sick to the point of dehydration and needed a ride to the hospital. Suffice it further to say that I wasn't going to let her come alone in an ambulance, which was her only other option at such a late hour.
So here I sit, in quite the contemplative mood as we await our turn to see a doctor who will hopefully provide answers and relief for my friend. As I wait, though, I am apt, as always, to do a bit of observation.
Not long after our arrival (at around 2 a.m. or so), I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a woman who had just entered the ER was suddenly leaving again. On first glance, I thought she worked for the hospital, as her khaki pants looked vaguely like scrubs and her coat obscured her shirt. She carried a plastic grocery bag with what appeared to be a blanket of some sort folded up in it.
The lady reappeared in the doorway just a few moments later. I thought nothing of it, dismissing the action as her having forgotten something in her car perhaps. This time, though, I decided to watch exactly where she went, hoping to confirm that she did indeed work in the hospital. To my surprise, she perched on a chair for a few seconds, then rose and walked back out into the cold.
This process was repeated about eight times before the woman approached the sign-in desk, gave the necessary information, then proceeded to sit in the same chair in which she had always perched.
Perhaps she was just nervous about asking for help. Perhaps she was really not sure if she needed help. Perhaps she was mentally impaired. Whatever the case, there she sat in the ER waiting room. I thought to myself, "I'm glad she's getting help, whatever help it might need to be."
But I guess even thoughts can come too soon. After about five minutes of waiting, the woman stood. grasped her bag tightly in her hand and plunged into the frigid February air one final time.
Between the time she left and the time we were called out of the waiting room, I didn't see her again.
What is the moral of this story? Is there even a moral here? I'll leave that for you to decide. And while you're deciding, if you think about it, say a prayer for those who need help and, for whatever reason, never receive it, be it physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually.
And to that mysterious lady in the ER, may you find the help you seek.
So why did I decide to write at 4 a.m. on a Wednesday morning? Well, the answer is simple, yet complex. Suffice it to say that I am at present sitting in an ER waiting room with a very dear friend who has gotten sick to the point of dehydration and needed a ride to the hospital. Suffice it further to say that I wasn't going to let her come alone in an ambulance, which was her only other option at such a late hour.
So here I sit, in quite the contemplative mood as we await our turn to see a doctor who will hopefully provide answers and relief for my friend. As I wait, though, I am apt, as always, to do a bit of observation.
Not long after our arrival (at around 2 a.m. or so), I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a woman who had just entered the ER was suddenly leaving again. On first glance, I thought she worked for the hospital, as her khaki pants looked vaguely like scrubs and her coat obscured her shirt. She carried a plastic grocery bag with what appeared to be a blanket of some sort folded up in it.
The lady reappeared in the doorway just a few moments later. I thought nothing of it, dismissing the action as her having forgotten something in her car perhaps. This time, though, I decided to watch exactly where she went, hoping to confirm that she did indeed work in the hospital. To my surprise, she perched on a chair for a few seconds, then rose and walked back out into the cold.
This process was repeated about eight times before the woman approached the sign-in desk, gave the necessary information, then proceeded to sit in the same chair in which she had always perched.
Perhaps she was just nervous about asking for help. Perhaps she was really not sure if she needed help. Perhaps she was mentally impaired. Whatever the case, there she sat in the ER waiting room. I thought to myself, "I'm glad she's getting help, whatever help it might need to be."
But I guess even thoughts can come too soon. After about five minutes of waiting, the woman stood. grasped her bag tightly in her hand and plunged into the frigid February air one final time.
Between the time she left and the time we were called out of the waiting room, I didn't see her again.
What is the moral of this story? Is there even a moral here? I'll leave that for you to decide. And while you're deciding, if you think about it, say a prayer for those who need help and, for whatever reason, never receive it, be it physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually.
And to that mysterious lady in the ER, may you find the help you seek.
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