A few months back, my husband and I drove past the hospital I gave birth in. We just got a glimpse of the building, and, immediately, my reaction was, “Aww… that’s where our babies were born!”
And to that, my husband gave me the most bewildered look. “Did you forget that all you did was cry in there? How do you feel so warmly about a place that caused you so much pain?”
That took me back quite a bit, because my husband was right.
That hospital was the place where I spent 20 plus hours in labor, only to find out I needed an emergency C-section for my firstborn. It was the place where two of my children were rushed into the NICU and I wept by their breathing machines for days. It was the place where I almost fainted in the middle of the hallway because I lost so much blood after surgery. It was the place where I had to complete my seminary finals in a medicated daze because my son came a month earlier than expected.
And, yet, when I drove past that building, all I felt was pleasure.
I blacked out once in my life. It was during a time when I was morbidly ill, to the point of months of hospitalization. My fever was so high that I became extremely dehydrated. But I didn’t know that I was that dehydrated until, one morning, I got out of bed and walked towards the living room. It only took a few steps for me to know something wasn’t right. I was walking and seeing, but everything went topsy-turvy. I knew I had to keep going, but I began to lose control of my limbs. And what started out as black specks in my vision turned into a big black wash of blindness.
Then I fell. And I fell hard.
It’s a good analogy for what painful times sometimes feel like.