Born in a Small Town Hospital

I was born in a small town, and I live in a small town.  I was born in a small town hospital-one of those places with more heart than hallways, where the staff knows your family before they check your chart, and the waiting room feels more like a living room than a sterile holding cell.  It’s where my story began, under flickering fluorescent lights and the watchful eye of Dr. Mangulis and his nursing staff.  One of those watchful nursing assistants who took care of me is now my next door neighbor.
Growing up, that little hospital was more than a place of birth or emergency stitches.  It was where we welcomed new siblings, said goodbye to grandparents, and learned what community really means.  It was where casseroles showed up before diagnoses and where prayers were offered in waiting rooms.
As I got older and moved away, I realized how rare that small town hospital is.  In cities, hospitals are towering institutions, efficient, and impersonal.  You’re a number, a chart, a name on a long list.  But back in that small town hospital, you’re a neighbor, a friend, someone’s child or grandchild.
Years later, when life brought me back home, I found myself walking that small town hospital-not as a patient, but as a visitor.  And it hit me: this place wasn’t just part of my story, it was a piece of my identity.
I was born in a small town hospital, where the walls hold more stories than the town library, and where healing is done not just with medicine, but with compassion.  It holds the heartbeat of a whole community.
Whether you were born in Philip, Kadoka, or Quinn,  that’s where your story started- right there, in a little room, in a place that still remembers your name.
Because I was born in a small town hospital, that small town hospital lives in me.