Wandering the Hospital Hallways

Where the ordinary and the anything-but-ordinary collide

Two years ago today, I was pacing. Wandering. Killing time. Wired on I-don’t-know-how-many cups of coffee, but exhausted from “sleeping” in a hospital recliner – that didn’t stay reclined – the night before.

My husband and my son were both in surgery, at the same time. Mark to give a kidney and Austin to receive one. At age 49, it was Mark’s first surgery; the words “perfect health” had been thrown around by the transplant team many times over the past few months.

At age 15, it was Austin’s 11^th. And the words “perfect health” had never been used to describe this child.

Diagnosed with a rare cancer at ten months old, his case only got rarer and rarer and rarer. But he lived, such a full life, so much fuller than you might imagine if you only read his medical history. 

And now this. The kidney failure we always knew would come. The transplant we always knew he’d need. 

And me, wandering the hospital hallways.

Hospitals are weird places, full of ordinary and extraordinary moments. Full of life and death, babies being born, diagnoses being given, hope holding strong or hope running out. 

But also full of normal people living normal days: heading into work, waiting in line at Starbucks for their usual order, navigating the hallways on their way to a routine eye doctor appointment.

And me, so far from my routine.

You feel marked on those days, like people can notice or should notice that something’s not right, that something momentous — good or bad, we weren’t yet sure — is happening. But they can’t. Because I looked like anyone else. Tired, sure. And in sweats instead of jeans. But on the outside, I was normal. Inside, anything but.

I was alone that day, mostly by choice. I would not have made for a very engaging companion. Plus, it was Covid time and we were all masked, neither Austin nor Mark would ever be allowed more than a single visitor, and I hadn’t even been allowed to touch either one of them that morning after their Covid tests came back negative. So I saw them off, Mark first, Austin two hours later, into this big, huge thing with nothing more than a wave and a blown kiss. 

And then I headed out to wander. 

Starbucks, wander, more Starbucks, more wander. Heading down hallways I never knew existed, winding through the maze that connects one part of the ever-expanding Cleveland Clinic to another. Finding quiet corners where I’d sit and check the endless stream of messages and well wishes from our incredible community of supporters. 

I read through those same messages this morning in my Facebook memories and was reminded of the boundless love we’ve received so many times, too many times, over the years. Hundreds and hundreds of messages, including from those people you know are on Facebook but who never post or comment on anything. They commented that day. They were all there, wishing for us, praying for us, pacing with us, celebrating with us. 

“Your village is here with you … none of you are alone.”

“Your community is sheltering you under an umbrella of love.”

“Pacing with you … and holding you close.”

“It’s safe to say the entire community has your family in our thoughts today.”

We felt it. All of it. We still do.

And, of course, “Gallaghers got this.”

And we did.

I didn’t know we would. In fact, I wrote this the night before surgery. And I was so, so worried for all that was to come.

But the people who know us, either on social media or in real life, know that all my worries were for naught. Because … we’ve been fine. It’s been easy. Yes, he takes meds every twelve hours, something he’ll do for the rest of his life. And he gets labs drawn every month, something he’ll do for the rest of his life.

But he’s here, alive. He feels good, better than good, normal. He’s strong as anything, growing every day.

He really has surpassed all we’d hoped for. Everything I wished for him as a baby I rocked to sleep with tubes and wires sprouting from his tiny, scarred body; as a bald toddler I chased down the hospital hallways, wheeling his IV pole behind him; as a 15-year-old, heading into yet another life-changing surgery. All the things I could have wished for, he’s surpassed.

So I will take those endless hours of wandering hospital hallways, the days and weeks and years of worrying, the months of chemo and radiation and in-patient stays. I don’t want to relive any of it, trust me, but I would … for this: