Recently I was blessed by the experience of being in the hospital. Yes, blessed. You see, it was a Catholic hospital. And a good Catholic hospital, at that.

The care I received from the staff and volunteers showed me Christ's compassion. From the “candy-stripers” who brought newspapers and magazines, to the doctors and nurses who tended to my ailment, to the patient transporters who wheeled me to various procedures, I had a chance to see Jesus in action through so many of his people.

My hospital experience became a faith experience from the moment I arrived in the emergency room. A crucifix on the wall was visible from my gurney. As the hours ticked by, I noted that daily prayers were said over the public-address system — morning, noon and evening. Each one began and ended with the Sign of the Cross. This, I thought, must leave visitors with no doubt that they are in an unambiguously Catholic place of care.

In my room, I “attended” Mass as it was broadcast live over the internal TV system from the hospital's chapel. (I later realized that this particular hospital is run by the Franciscans.)

During one diagnostic procedure, a very professional healthcare worker put me at ease as she helped me through my tests, which involved staying still for more than an hour — a very long time for a person with spastic cerebral palsy not to move. Her patient and caring words of encouragement made it easy for me. That in itself seemed like a miracle.

Afterwards, back in my hospital bed, I thought back on the events that had led to my being admitted to the hospital.

It began with a phone call to my family physician after a night of terrible nausea. Both my mother and I were frightened. Apparently, so was the doctor. I have no doubt her quick action saved my life. She had me rushed to the emergency room. It was then that I began the interior journey that would lead me to a whole new level of appreciation for Catholic healthcare.

I'll always remember how I reacted when the doctor told me my diagnosis: I wept. But they were tears of relief, not despair. My condition was serious, but treatable: two ulcers, one of which had recently been bleeding and made me anemic.

At one point, after a battery of tests, I was given a blood transfusion. Then they pumped fluids into me intravenously and put me on a liquid diet. Needless to say, this made my digestive system uncontrollable.

I noticed that my roommate, like me, needed a lot of attention. He was in great pain as he tried to pass a kidney stone. The nurses were in and out of our room a lot. At times they seemed tired, but they never took out their frustration on us.

Thank God for the crucifixes on the walls throughout the hospital. I knew Christ was with me through the entire ordeal. And, with each glance at Jesus on the cross, I was reminded to see his face in all the wonderful people who were caring for me with such selfless abandon.

The next time I prepared myself to receive Communion, I thought of the great people I had met as I said, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the Word and I shall be healed.”

For healed I was — in more ways than one.

Bill Zalot writes from Levittown, Pennsylvania.