Laura Peariso, Senior Director, Healthcare Information, MHA, written in honor of National Hospital Week
I live in a rural town—what I call the middle of nowhere, and everywhere. We’re miles from the nearest city, surrounded by open space instead of traffic. But out here, you learn to value what’s close. In the city, everything is nearby. Out here, everything is a drive—but what’s nearby is priceless.
One week before my son turned ten, my husband, Doug, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. That moment shattered our world, but it also showed us the quiet strength of something we’d always had: our community hospital.
I sent Doug to Memorial Healthcare’s Emergency Department because I knew he would be seen quickly. Their ED is efficient, sharp with diagnostics, and will transfer you if needed. But for the next 16 months, Memorial became more than just a place that could help—it became our medical home.
We consulted with other hospitals for opinions and eventually surgery. But nearly all of Doug’s care happened just 10 miles down the road. That mattered more than I can explain. When you’re going through something as intense and draining as cancer treatment, being at home matters. Being where you’re comfortable, where your son can visit after school, where you can drive back to him after a long day holding him and help him prepare for what no child should have to face.
There are so many appointments for cancer treatment. Doug completed 28 rounds of chemo. On days I couldn’t be there, he had access to a volunteer ride service to safely get him to treatment. Small town, big heart.
When it came time to make end-of-life decisions, we had a choice: transfer to another hospital for one more procedure—or enter hospice. He needed to be home. And home wasn’t just our house. It was Memorial. It was the physicians, nurses and staff who had walked this journey with us. It was familiar faces, voices that knew his name, and caregivers who understood our story without needing to be told. From diagnosis to after his last breath he was home.
Doug’s hospice nurse had a daughter in our son’s class. That’s what it’s like here. You see the people who cared for your husband at the grocery store. At the school pickup line. At church. These aren’t just healthcare providers. They are neighbors. They are the people who held us up during the hardest days of our lives.
This is what a community hospital means. It’s not just about proximity. It’s about trust, dignity, and being surrounded by people who care—not just because it’s their job, but because it’s personal.
I will never stop being grateful for that.
That’s why supporting our local hospitals matters—because they support us when we need it most. If you can, donate. Volunteer. Advocate. Share your story. Community hospitals don’t just heal bodies—they hold families together.
