Hospitals are not my thing.

I ought to know. I’ve spent my fair share of time in them over the past several years.

For the last few years, it’s been my mom who has had to spend time in the hospital for one reason or another, and my siblings and I have spent plenty of days sitting beside her during her stays.

And honestly, it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do.

Not because I don’t want to be there for my family—I absolutely do. But sitting in a hospital room all day trying to make small talk is just not my idea of a good time.

When I’m the one in the hospital, I’d much rather be left alone. Give me a book, a television, and a pillow, and I’ll be perfectly happy to entertain myself. When people come to visit me, I feel like I have to entertain them, and that’s the last thing I want to worry about when I’m sick.

Unfortunately, for the past few days, I’ve found myself spending quite a bit of time in a hospital.

This time, it wasn’t for me or even for one of my parents.

It was for one of my daughters.

She has been in the hospital because of complications from mononucleosis—Mono, for short. Her spleen is enlarged, and she developed an infection that the doctors wanted to make sure wasn’t being caused by something other than the Mono.

Exactly why it took several days to figure all of this out is still beyond me.

Her boyfriend took her to the ER Thursday afternoon around 2:00. She wasn’t seen until sometime after 6:00 and wasn’t admitted to the hospital until the following day.

Four hours just to be seen, and then another night before they decided to admit her. Maybe I’m just impatient, but that seemed a little ridiculous to me.

They did scans. They drew blood. Tests were run. Promises were made—and apparently forgotten.

Once she was finally admitted, it seemed like the hospital had no idea what the ER had already done. So, they started doing tests all over again.

It was almost like she had checked into the hospital and said, “Hi, I’m here. Let’s start from the beginning.”

On Saturday afternoon, the hospitalist came in and said she wanted to keep my daughter one more night for observation. She assured us that, barring any problems, she should be able to go home the next day.

The next morning, my other daughter said she could stay a little longer so she could take her home when she was discharged.

My wife and I went to church and then went out to eat afterward. We hadn’t planned on going to the hospital that afternoon, but eventually made our way there so we could relieve my other daughter.

Several hours passed.

Still no word about my daughter going home.

Finally, I went to the nurses’ station and asked what was going on.

That’s when we found out the doctor had actually decided earlier that my daughter was NOT going home.

Wait… what?

When exactly were we going to be told this?

If I hadn’t gone to the nurses’ station and asked, there’s no telling when we would have found out.

Needless to say, I was livid.

The doctor finally made her way into the room about three hours after I had made my inquiry. After expressing my disappointment that no one had bothered to keep us informed, she explained that she was trying to consult an infectious disease doctor to make sure there wasn’t something else going on.

That’s when my wife pointed out that an infectious disease doctor was already supposed to be involved.

Apparently, the hospitalist wasn’t aware of that.

The ER doctor was supposed to have already ordered the consultation, but somewhere along the way, someone dropped the ball.

And unfortunately, my daughter was the one lying in that hospital bed while everyone tried to figure out whose ball it was.

This morning, the infectious disease doctor finally reviewed her bloodwork and assured my daughter that there was nothing else going on. Everything she was experiencing was related to the Mono.

Her instructions?

Go home.

Rest.

Give it a week or so.

That’s exactly what she’s doing now.

She’s home, resting, and hopefully on the road to recovery from what has been a pretty debilitating illness.

I know hospitals and healthcare workers are dealing with tremendous workloads, and I appreciate the people who take care of us when we need them.

But sometimes I really do wonder how we’ve managed to make it this far in our healthcare system.

Maybe I’m just getting old.

Or maybe I’ve spent enough time in hospitals to know that sometimes the biggest challenge isn’t figuring out what’s wrong with the patient.

It’s figuring out what everyone else is supposed to be doing.

For now, though, I’m just thankful my daughter is home.

And I think we’ll all sleep a little better knowing she’s there.