By Steve Moran

I want to tell you about the best worst weekend I’ve had in a long time.

Two weeks ago, I was playing my little nine-hole par-three golf course after work. The kind of course where nobody’s keeping score, and everybody’s telling lies about their game. I felt good. Strong. The kind of good where you forget you’re getting older.

That lasted through Thursday evening.

Friday morning, I woke up with a fever. Not a bad one. Just enough to make everything feel wrong. I pushed through my workday anyway because that’s what we do, isn’t it? We push through. 

Saturday morning, I taught my kids at church, still feeling like warm garbage.

Saturday afternoon, my wife and I headed out of town for a long weekend. That’s when the fever decided to get serious. And the coughing started. The kind of coughing that makes you wonder if your lungs are trying to explode or escape.

My wife spent the weekend watching me sleep, cough, and apologize for ruining everything. She’s patient like that. More patient than I deserve.

When Pushing Through Isn’t Enough

I went to the doctor. Got more meds. The fever went down, but the coughing got worse. And now there was wheezing, which is never a good sign.

I hate being sick, and I hate being stupid even more.

So Saturday morning, instead of teaching my kids at church, I drove myself to the emergency room. They took one look at me and got serious in a way that made me realize I should have come sooner.

They drew blood from both arms — and friend, they drew a lot of it. Then came the long walk to a hallway bed. I’d been dreading that. The hallway bed. The place where they put you when there’s no room, when you’re not quite sick enough for privacy but too sick to send home.

Turns out, that hallway bed was the best seat in the house.

My Front Row Seat

A young paramedic student came over, nervous energy radiating off him like heat. He asked if he could start my IV. I could see he needed the practice. I could see he was scared of screwing up. I know that feeling, so I said yes.

He took his time. Found the vein. Lined up the needle. I didn’t watch — I never can, though I don’t know why.

He nailed it. Almost no pain.

I told him about my arm hair situation and the taping challenges it presents. He appreciated the heads-up.

Then came the IV steroids, the antibiotics, the breathing treatment, and the chest x-ray. Four hours of being worked on by people who do this every single day, for people like me who only show up when things get bad.

But here’s what I want to tell you about.

What I Saw

From my hallway bed at the intersection, facing the nursing station, I could see everything. Hear everything.

An older woman down the hall kept crying out. “I need help.” Then, “I gotta pee.” Over and over. I know they were helping her. I know she wasn’t being ignored. But she was suffering in a way I wasn’t. Her misery was bigger than mine.

Across from me, a young woman was getting her blood drawn. She had perfect pink nails. The kind you get done for special occasions. I heard her tell the phlebotomist she was supposed to be a bridesmaid in a wedding that afternoon. She’d come in from out of town for this wedding. I hope she made it, but I don’t think she did.

The PA system kept announcing stroke alerts. Cardiac events. Somewhere in this building, people were fighting for their lives while I was just fighting to breathe easier.

Another woman was on a hallway bed nearby. I could only see her feet. She’d taken a fall and couldn’t remember what happened. Her voice sounded confused and scared.

And I’m lying there thinking, “I’m the lucky one.”

The Gratitude List

I should have been in Arizona that week. Should have been at ASHA, having dinner with my teammate Jada Clint and the ProCareHR sales team. Should have been seeing old friends I haven’t seen in years.

But I’m not. I’m home in my easy chair, writing this.

And I’m thinking about history. About how pneumonia used to be a death sentence. How people would spend weeks or months in bed, if they survived at all. How my great-grandfather probably knew someone who died from what I’m recovering from in my living room.

I’m thinking about my insurance card and how this whole thing will cost me $90 plus $11 for medications, how I can pay for it online without thinking twice.

I’m thinking about how I’m well enough to sit here and write. To do my livestreams this week. To make phone calls, send emails, and be present for the people who matter.

I’m thinking about my wife, who watched me ruin a weekend and didn’t complain once.

I’m thinking about that paramedic student who got his IV placement right and probably felt like a champion for the rest of his shift.

I’m thinking about that woman with the pink nails and hoping she made it to that wedding.

Mostly, I’m thinking about how being sick enough to need help makes you realize how much worse it could be. How much worse it is for other people. How much better I have it than I usually admit.

The hallway bed taught me that.

You don’t get to choose when life knocks you down. But you do get to choose what you see while you’re down there.

And friend, if you look close enough, you’ll find the great hiding right there in the middle of the awful.

Where have you found it?