The nine year old asked me why I don't pick her up after school anymore. (Hubby's been a'fetching her.) I told her that I had been seeing mother in the evenings. "Every day?", she asked..."Yes. If you were all scared and lonely in the hospital wouldn't you want me to come see you every day?" Yes, she would. And so I did when they kept her in a box for two months. And so did Mother for me, first bringing farm animals for the crib in which I awaited my first surgery*, and on and on...peanut butter cups at nine, ice cream at twelve, different models of portable music players, a jones-for cup of coffee ...gosh, I've had a lot of surgeries...And being the best hospital in the country and all that, can't they do something about all those people crying in the elevators? I mean, can't they have seperate but equal elevators- crying-non crying conveyances? Every day, either I'm looking at the floor trying not to intrude or the other passengers are doing it to me. Let's have some decency here! But wait! Do I see a pudding on the horizon? Do I hear The William Tell Overture? Oh, that will jolly things up for a bit.
* I remember them! They were the best thing ever. I put up a farm right away.