First Person Account: Walking in a Hospital

Automatic sliding doors always seem to open slower when you have somewhere to be. I had waited nine long months to step into this hospital, and this sliding door was not going to slow me down. As soon as I was inside, I was on a mission to ignore the brunette at the front desk, push my way through a crowd of chatty people, and press button number three inside the very aluminum elevator. Ding times three, and I was out of the elevator like an awkward jockey without his racehorse.

Signs indicating different departments of the hospital were no use to me, and I passed by them without a second glace. I had prepared my steps to Postpartum weeks in advance—walk down the main hall, take your first right, and make a hurried gesture to the ladies in mint blue scrubs behind a glass wall when I reached a set of locked doubled doors.

“Room 304, Room 304” I repeated to myself. There it was. The second room to my left with an oak stained door and a silver handle waiting for me to turn it clockwise.

There was my brother, Matt, hovering protectively over his small family. Jessica was lying ever so quietly on the hospital bed, keeping a small body warm as she rocks him back and forth in her arms. A light from the window hit the blue and white balloons tied to a chair. A half eaten sandwich rested on a tray, and a fuzzy blue dog sat floppily on the windowsill.

Jessica held her first baby boy out to me, and I gladly yet uneasily held 6 pounds and 9 ounces wrapped in a soft, sapphire-colored blanket. It was my first time holding a baby like this. His body was so warm, and his scent was so fresh. His eyes were closed tight, and his little lips made sweet, sincere purring noises. And to his noises, I made the only reply I knew, “Hi, Aidan, I’m your Auntie Lizzy.” Who knew it only took nine months to make perfection?