The following is taken from the new book, What If God Were The Sun, by John Edward. It is published by the Jodere Group, and distributed by Hay House, Inc. It is available at all bookstores, by phone: 800/654-5126, or via online.

What If God Were The Sun
by John Edward


A Visit to a Loved One

I’m sitting here in the third-floor corridor of our local Community Hospital, counting the number of tiles that make up the bigger pattern on the floor. As I look around, I note that this complex feels more like a hotel than a medical center. The staff and administration are obviously interested in providing the best professional care they can, and it’s clear that they also appreciate aesthetics. The manicured bushes, plants, trees, and flower gardens are exquisite, and they’re accented by stately fountains bubbling with softly flowing water. The entire place is immaculate–and gives off a feeling of efficiency and security—to inpatients, outpatients, and even visitors like me.
I walk into 314, a double room, and see that the patient in the other bed is having a chest x-ray, so I decide to wait outside.
“It should only be a minute, and then you can come right back in and visit,” the red-haired radiology technician says, smiling at me.
She pushes the portable x-ray machine into the room toward her patient, and yells out, “Mr. Brown? Are you awake?”
I felt like yelling out, “Are you kidding?!” The sound of the machine being noisily wheeled into the room will more than take care of that. And, of course, when Mr. Brown sees the technician coming toward him, he’ll really perk up. She’s quite attractive.
Back out in the hall again, I find it amazing that the mind can find the smallest way to occupy itself. I can’t believe I’m taking the time to notice the tiny gold specks swirled into the smaller interlocked triangles that form the squares in the floor tile. But what else am I supposed to do in a hospital? It’s either count the floor tiles or do battle with the vending machines.
Maybe I should make another attempt to fight with the soda-and-snack dispenser down the hall. At last count, the machines were winning. Let’s see, I believe that for my five-dollar investment, the return was two cans of Pepsi and a bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies. What a bargain. Not only am I out a few bucks, but there goes my low-carb diet. Maybe all those little money-munching, profit-making machines around the hospital go toward buying those beautiful fountains. Who knows?
Then again, maybe I need to focus on getting more than three hours of sleep at night. I’m very tired, and I’m being a little sarcastic and cynical. I know one thing, though: No matter how phenomenal a place this might be, I don’t want to be here. I’m not happy about this visit—not happy at all.
It’s funny how rules can mean so much to one person and so little to another. The first day I came here, I walked past the front desk and went right up to room 314. Almost immediately, I was verbally assaulted by one of the many blue-haired Rambo wannabes. You know the ones I mean—the women with the stern eyes and pointy index fingers that they wag in your face.
This particular “enforcer” stopped me in my tracks, informing me that I was in “breach of hospital security.
“Do you think you’re special?” she barked. “There are rules, you know.”
All of this because I didn’t get a room pass. After I expressed my deepest apologies for putting the lives of 200 patients at risk by not securing the large plastic card with 314 on it, I assured her that I would never violate the rules again. Nope—never again would I walk past the front desk on my way upstairs. So . . . I made sure that I found every side and back door possible to get up there from that day forward. I have been here every day since then. And that was two weeks ago.
It’s times like these that force you to be a little more analytical about life. Not the kind of analysis that requires a visit to the local therapist and a nice black couch, but a more personal type of introspection where you delve into the meaning of your own existence. I believe that it’s times like these when your faith is stretched and tested.
When you think about life, you can’t help realizing how much humor and irony there is all around you. It’s right there, right in front of your face. And sometimes it takes a personal epiphany to get that sort of reality check. Well, mine is happening as I sit here, but it’s not so subtle. It’s screaming out reminders about personal decisions I made in the past.
All of a sudden, the act of visiting one of my parents in the hospital has rules and regulations attached to it—not to mention a time limit. Somehow this all makes me think about the many holiday and Sunday dinners that I neglected to be a part of because I was “busy” or just too tired or lazy to go to. I made up every excuse in the book not to attend those family functions, and sometimes I went to a holiday party at a friend’s house instead.
Now it seems very ironic that those missed opportunities are truly being missed—more than ever.
As we go through life, we might make choices that we believe are important for us at that time. But when we least expect it, or when we’re selfishly neglecting the situations in front of us, what I call a “pocket of emotion” is filled in with a feeling reminiscent of the experience that we missed. What we didn’t realize at that time was that we would be dealing with that pocket of emotion at a later date, and usually at a time when we would be the most vulnerable.
That’s how I feel right now. I didn’t realize back then when I was avoiding those family functions that I was missing anything, and I took those opportunities to be with my loved ones for granted. And now I have regrets.
I’m feeling pretty morose as I go over all this in my mind, yet I clearly recognize that the past is the past. So here I am in the present, counting floor tiles and realizing that my heart’s “pocket of feeling” is being emptied. Too bad it isn’t more like placing my hand in an old jacket pocket and finding a $20 bill. Instead, there’s just emotion.
One of the nicer women at the front desk is approaching me, and I’m afraid that she’s going to throw me out or at least make an attempt. My parents taught me to be respectful of people who are older than I am, but nobody is going to tell me when and for how long I can see the person who loved and raised me. Instead, she just smiles at me, in a very compassionate and understanding manner. It seems like she knows something I don’t. But maybe I’m just grasping at straws—I’m so exhausted I can’t think straight.
Once you make it past the army of perfume-packing seniors at the front desk, then the nurses on the units are next. Some of them are so busy that they don’t care if you sleep in the same room as the patients. Many of them even feel secure, knowing that you’re right there with your loved ones. Then, if something happens, you can notify the nurse’s station immediately.
Of course there are a few nurses who take great offense as to why you’re constantly questioning the care your family member is receiving, or every pill and injection that’s being administered. But for the most part, the nurses are all supportive of relatives being here. We all know that in many cases, like this one, it’s just a matter of time.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been having a hard time trying to figure out what to do all day at a place like this. Do I buy flowers or stuffed animals at the gift shop that say “Get Well Soon”? Maybe take a chance and buy some raffle tickets at the Ladies’ Auxiliary desk? Or, do I just deal with the harsh reality of what I instinctively know to be true, but can’t seem to allow myself to deal with? You know the harsh reality I’m talking about: the one that tells you that the person you’re visiting may not be there the next time you walk into their room.
On my left, on a stretcher sitting in the hall, there’s a woman who looks to be at least 80 years old. She’s lying there coiled up in a fetal position, screaming for someone, anyone, to help her. Her pleas seem to be going unanswered, though, and it’s heartbreaking to listen to. I walk over to give her some comfort while I wait to go back into room 314, yet it’s clear that she’s suffering from some form of dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.
I wonder if she has any family. Do they come to see her, or has she been abandoned here, doomed to spend her last days in and out of the local nursing home and hospital? I couldn’t imagine ever abandoning my mother like that.
That’s when I remember once again why I come here, day after day, hour after hour. I hate the fact that circumstances have forced me to be here on and off over the last two weeks. In the circle of life, you know that this day will arrive. You talk about it as if it’s far in the future, and you plan for it with health insurance and life insurance and wills, yet you never really discuss death in detail with the people around you. If you were to do that, somebody would tell you to shut up, that you’re being morbid.
“Code 999 K3! Code 999 K3!” I’m jolted out of my reverie by the screeching voice on the hospital’s PA system.
It sounds as if a herd of elephants is coming toward me. The air seems to rumble with noise and energy, and I can feel the atmosphere literally changing around me. I look to my left and right, up and down the corridor, to see what all the fuss is all about. It is at this moment that the large wooden doors with the big glass panels down the hall to my left burst open. The blur of white lab coats goes rushing by me into room 314. My heart starts to pound, and I can feel my adrenaline start to rush.
I’d seen a code 999 once before. I know that it’s like a race for time, a race for life, like a gun goes off and they’re all competing to save someone’s life.
As I’m breaking out into a cold sweat, the harsh reality of what’s happening smacks me right in the face, and my eyes start welling up, yet I’m frozen to my spot. I can’t seem to get my body to move closer to the door. Four, five, and now at least seven people are cramming into room 314. Nurses, respiratory therapists, various technicians are all crowding in there—and now I can see the crash cart being wheeled in.
Jamie, my favorite nurse, who usually makes me laugh by winking at me and constantly droning, “I gotta get outta this place. . . .,” is scurrying into the room, too, with a very concerned expression on her face.
The way that she glances at me as she runs in worries me more than anything. My heart is pounding even harder, and I’m starting to feel lightheaded.
No . . . it’s not Mr. Brown who’s having the medical emergency!
As hot tears flow uncontrollably from my eyes, I think, Oh my GOD, this is what it feels like to lose a parent . . . and today of all days . . . when we should be celebrating a birthday!

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