Thanksgiving in the Hospital

I press on the gas, lean back against the head rest, rest one elbow on the consul, and glide along vacant lanes of highway. Speed, and the absence of traffic, is almost exhilarating at 6AM in the morning, as gold rays pierce through a lattice of cloud cover. One more day in the hospital, in this long string of days. As I walk through the tunnels to the entrance, weary faces pass in the other direction – worn but polished with morning light. Ready to leave. Comforted to be going home, even if only to crash on a pillow. I have a fleeting wish to turn in the other direction, but I suppress it, keep walking, pretend I don’t notice the lump building in my throat. Just another day.

A boy playing in a marketplace with a strutting old gobbler entertains Chichicastenango visitors by doing the son, a dance popular throughout Guatemala. Luis Marden, National Geographic.

Inside the hospital, it is not Thanksgiving. Small, lonely reminders of what is missing – a turkey poster on a wall, the festive sweater of a passerby,  a holiday song playing faintly in the cafeteria – make for a somber backdrop to the day. It would almost be better if there were nothing at all. It is not Thanksgiving inside these walls. It is on the calendar, if one were to look, but in here it is only a shadow, an echo, a memory reverberating through the sterility and the sadness. It is a day to remember – even to long for – all of the better, healthier Thanksgivings before this one. The ones to be thankful for.

The families in the hospital are quiet. Sadder today, if that is possible. One father, rubbing his eyes and rising from a hospital cot as I enter the room, says to me, “I’m with my little girl today. That’s all that matters. That is Thanksgiving.” Another anxious mother raises her eyebrows, “Do you think my son will be able to go home today? It is Thanksgiving, after all.” A grandmother greets me with her new plan, “We are going to reschedule Thanksgiving this year. Thanksgiving will be when my baby comes home. Then we will have a turkey to celebrate. Yes, Lord, we will.” A five-year-old boy begins the day by singing in his room. He ends the day in tears – no one in his family came to visit like they promised.

Holidays in the hospital are some of the saddest times I have experienced. Families, patients, and even nurses and physicians – their yearning for home becomes more poignant. An anxious longing to be elsewhere pervades the building. But we are all resigned. We imagine Thanksgiving beyond the windows. The empty roads are the only sign that something else, something better than this, might be happening in other places. But try not to think of this. Instead, think of it as just another Thursday. Another day in a string of days. The time to celebrate will come, but not today.


3 Responses to Thanksgiving in the Hospital

  1. Philip Allen Green says:

    Very nice. As an ER doc I know exactly how you feel. On holidays when I am working away from my wife and children I tell myself ‘this is my other family’ and somehow that helps a little bit.

    Best of luck, keep writing.

  2. anisa says:

    You writing is really quite beautiful, I do hope that u will become a published writer someday. Having worked in hospitals for many year, I can atest that u hit the nail on the head felt like it was thanksgiving all over again, since I seem to find myself wrking most holidays also.

  3. haley jackson says:


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