My father's bittersweet homecoming was a trip down memory lane that neither of us had anticipated. As we drove up the Mississippi River, my dad sat quietly in the backseat, his eyes fixed on our two-year-old daughter as she pointed at the passing scenery. When I asked him if it all smelled the same to him now as it did when he was a patient here 53 years ago, his response was simple: "No, it doesn't smell like a hospital anymore."
The Gillis W. Long Hansen's Disease Center in Carville, Louisiana - the very place where my dad had spent nine long years of his life under federal quarantine - now stands as a testament to how far society has come. The once-barbed-wired perimeter is now replaced by neatly manicured lawns and ornate gardens that put even the most idyllic prep school to shame.
As we stepped out of our rental car, my dad's eyes lingered on the imposing structure of the old hospital, its broad face still bearing the scars of its past. "I remember coming here as a scared kid," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister Victoria made me feel like 'a poorly nourished, chronically ill-looking Chinese boy'."
The memories came flooding back as we walked through the grounds, passing by the dorms where my dad had spent countless nights under the watchful eyes of nursing sisters. He showed me his old room in House 29, its window gazing out onto the weather-worn headstones in the cemetery at the center of the quadrangle. The weight of history hung heavy in the air.
One of the most poignant moments came when we strolled into the recreation center, and my dad pulled back the curtains to reveal a faded ballroom where they'd once held all their dances. "We had a lot of balls," he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with nostalgia, as he reminisced about Mardi Gras celebrations and constructing floats for the parade.
But it was in those quiet moments that I glimpsed the complex soul who had endured unimaginable hardships to emerge from the shadows of Hansen's disease. The man who had once been confined by pain and fear now walked alongside his family, a sense of purpose and belonging etched on his face.
As we left Carville behind, carrying with us memories of my dad's bittersweet homecoming, I couldn't help but feel that this trip was as much about me as it was about him. For the first time in my life, I saw through my father's eyes - a man who had lived through darkness to emerge into the light.
It was there, in that place where my dad once walked with fear and uncertainty now walks with gratitude and love, that I realized what Carville meant to us all - not just as a symbol of isolation but also of resilience. Without this journey home, without facing the ghosts of his past, he would never have become the man who had built our family.
And so, as we stepped back into our rental car, I looked over at my father and smiled, knowing that Carville may be a part of him now, but he is no longer a prisoner.
The Gillis W. Long Hansen's Disease Center in Carville, Louisiana - the very place where my dad had spent nine long years of his life under federal quarantine - now stands as a testament to how far society has come. The once-barbed-wired perimeter is now replaced by neatly manicured lawns and ornate gardens that put even the most idyllic prep school to shame.
As we stepped out of our rental car, my dad's eyes lingered on the imposing structure of the old hospital, its broad face still bearing the scars of its past. "I remember coming here as a scared kid," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister Victoria made me feel like 'a poorly nourished, chronically ill-looking Chinese boy'."
The memories came flooding back as we walked through the grounds, passing by the dorms where my dad had spent countless nights under the watchful eyes of nursing sisters. He showed me his old room in House 29, its window gazing out onto the weather-worn headstones in the cemetery at the center of the quadrangle. The weight of history hung heavy in the air.
One of the most poignant moments came when we strolled into the recreation center, and my dad pulled back the curtains to reveal a faded ballroom where they'd once held all their dances. "We had a lot of balls," he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with nostalgia, as he reminisced about Mardi Gras celebrations and constructing floats for the parade.
But it was in those quiet moments that I glimpsed the complex soul who had endured unimaginable hardships to emerge from the shadows of Hansen's disease. The man who had once been confined by pain and fear now walked alongside his family, a sense of purpose and belonging etched on his face.
As we left Carville behind, carrying with us memories of my dad's bittersweet homecoming, I couldn't help but feel that this trip was as much about me as it was about him. For the first time in my life, I saw through my father's eyes - a man who had lived through darkness to emerge into the light.
It was there, in that place where my dad once walked with fear and uncertainty now walks with gratitude and love, that I realized what Carville meant to us all - not just as a symbol of isolation but also of resilience. Without this journey home, without facing the ghosts of his past, he would never have become the man who had built our family.
And so, as we stepped back into our rental car, I looked over at my father and smiled, knowing that Carville may be a part of him now, but he is no longer a prisoner.
... its not just about a dad visitin his old hospital, its about how far society has come & how ppl like my dad who went thru so much have overcome their struggles to build new lives. his experience with hansen's disease is still relatable today 
but its also a reminder of progress weve made in terms of healthcare & acceptance.
... it just goes to show how far weve come from those dark days of quarantine & isolation. my dad's story is a testament to the human spirit & how people can overcome even the toughest challenges 
it's crazy to think about how much pain and fear he endured and how he came out on top 
it's so beautiful to see them reconnecting like that 
. He told me about Sister Victoria makin' him feel like an outcast back then 
. My dad's story is just incredible... from bein' confined by disease to walkin' with purpose and belonging 
. This trip was as much about him comin' home for us, our daughter, too... seein' the world through his eyes 
. It's not just a hospital anymore; it's a testament to how far we've come as human beings 
I mean, can you imagine being stuck in quarantine for 9 whole years just because of some super rare disease 
? My grandma once had to wear an oxygen mask to class in middle school because she was allergic to like, EVERYTHING 
. Anyway, this place in Louisiana sounds super interesting, and it's awesome that they've turned it into a happy homecoming spot for people with Hansen's disease 
. I mean, who doesn't love a good ol' fashioned ballroom dance party 
? But seriously, it's beautiful to see how far society has come, and how these people have found strength in the face of adversity 
. Anyway, Carville, here I come! 
the gardens and lawns are insane compared to the barbed wire perimeter he remembered 
its so powerful how this place is now a symbol of resilience instead of isolation 
So like, it's really amazing how far society has come since the Gillis W. Long Hansen's Disease Center was built back in 1939... yeah I know, 53 years ago feels like ancient history 
. The story of his experience there is so sad but also kinda inspiring - I mean, he went through some really tough stuff and yet here he is, surrounded by love and family 
The whole thing just feels so beautiful, you know? Seeing the transformation from a hospital to a symbol of resilience... it's like a testament to how far we've come as a society. But at the same time, it's also about the person who went through that experience and came out stronger on the other side 
. It's all about finding purpose and belonging again after being lost for so long