“We were all at the hospital every afternoon, and there were different ways of walking across the town through the dusk to the hospital. Two of the ways were alongside canals, but they were long. Always, though, you crossed a bridge across a canal to enter the hospital.”
Walking to the hospital every afternoon became a routine for us. Some of us preferred the longer routes alongside the canals, finding peace in the serene waters and the gentle movements of the boats. Others chose the quicker paths that took us directly to the bridge leading into the hospital.
No matter which route we took, we were all united in our purpose - to be there for our loved ones who were battling illness or injury. The hospital became a central part of our lives during those days, a place of hope, fear, and uncertainty.
As we crossed the bridge each day, we left behind the outside world and entered a realm where time seemed to stand still. The hospital walls held stories of pain and perseverance, of loss and of love. And we, as visitors and caregivers, became part of those stories, offering our support and our strength in any way we could.
The journey to the hospital, no matter the path we took, symbolized our commitment to those we cared for. It was a daily reminder of the fragility of life, but also of the resilience and determination that can be found in the midst of adversity. And as we walked back home at the end of each day, we carried with us the memories of our time spent in that place of healing and hope.