At Top of the Stairwell

When I was a young boy of five years old, I became very ill. My parents took me to the Doctors shortly after Christmas. I was immediately rushed to the hospital and there I would stay for the next six months of my young life. Even though I had five siblings, my father would visit me in the hospital every day. The nurses assumed I must be an only child based on how much time my father spent visiting me. When it came time for my father to go home each night, we had a little ritual we would perform. My father would try to sneak me out of the hospital to take me home. I would climb out of bed, stand on top of my father’s feet and wrap my arms around his waist. My father would button up his long trench coat over top of me and start walking out of my hospital room with me holding on tight. As soon as we reached the nurses’ station outside my room, one of the nurses would stop us and say I was not well enough to go home yet and we would return to my room where my father tucked me in for the night. One night, for some reason, we made it past the nurses’ station all the way to the top of the stairwell exiting the hospital. My father unwrapped his trench coat and announced we had made it! We could go down the stairs, out of the hospital and home to my mother, brothers and sisters. I remember standing at the top of the steps looking down the long stairwell to the door leading outside to freedom; away from the doctors, away from the needles, away from the medicines, away from lonely nights, away from fear, away. We stood there for what seemed like an eternity. My father said it was up to me. Do we go home or stay there? The image of that long stairwell has stayed with me ever since. Whenever I feel conflicted in my life; whenever I have a tough decision to make; whenever I am under stress; I see the image of that stairwell and the choices it represented to me. On that night in 1963, I told my father we had better go back to my hospital room until I was well enough to go home. Most times in my life since then, I have made the practical, safe decision. But every once in a while – with the image of a frightened boy standing at the top of the stairwell in my mind – I have decided to take the chance and walk out that door. Luckily for me, my decisions seem to all work well for me. But, that image still returns as those tough decisions seem to repeatedly present themselves. I am just glad I am still around to make the choice.