They say your mind can wander far during a hospital stay. I imagine days stretch into amorphous clouds of time where it seems like everything and nothing has happened in the stretch of a minute, a day, an hour.

An announcement blared over the intercom at 3:31 p.m. at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. Though I had been coming to Boston's Dana Farber hospital for five days now, I had never heard them make an announcement.

The gentleman's voice on the intercom said calmly that if they had another klaxon blare with a follow-up, it would mean we would have to evacuate the floor.

If it was something straightforward, I assumed they would have made it clear. Was someone hiding in the wards who shouldn't be and they needed to be located, a patient, or unruly family member, or was there a genuine security threat? My family member in the hospital was still experiencing trouble being moved even for short distances, and I absolutely didn't want her to be put through any strains outside of the hard road to recovery, so this didn't bode well.

Sure enough, the second klaxon sounded and a code red was called, meaning one thing: fire.

The two of us are both pretty good under pressure, but braced ourselves and waited and watched as security teams came down the stairs to supervise the ward's response. 

All of the seriousness of what turned out to be merely a drill was not lost on us. My family member had been here for weeks and works in the medical field and she hadn't expected anything of the kind. 

As no one came to the room or evacuated patients, we realized the imaginary fire crisis was over, the strange voices of the security team faded away to other wings, and my family member drifted back to sleep.

The whole situation got me thinking, though. How do we respond in a crisis? How can we bring others along with us who aren't in a capacity to move independently? How can we better rally for each other and take care of our friends, neighbors and loved ones? How can we still break down barriers if our aid is denied?

Still coming down from the adrenaline rush of worrying about a hospital evacuation, both of us sank back slowly into our respective chairs. My family member in her recliner, and myself in my more formal hospital visiting chair.

Though back in North Idaho, the snowflakes were falling fast, here in Boston, the so-called "winter" weather had crept up to the 50s, and folks were shucking their winter gear left and right.

Relief and respite washed over us both as we settled in once again, the thrum of the pumps and tubes doing their important work.

A noise startled me, and I looked up from my reverie. It was a delicate snore coming from the recliner chair. All was back to normal.