They call the time between 7 PM and 9 PM “visiting hours.” I call it “the torture chamber.”
That’s when you see who really matters.
In the bed to my left, Mr. Henderson has his daughter feeding him ice chips. Across the hall, a loud Italian family is smuggling in lasagna. Laughter. Life.
In my corner? Silence.
My son sent a tablet. “So we can FaceTime, Dad!” he said. It’s still in the box. I don’t know how to turn it on, and I’m too proud to ask the nurse.
My daughter sent a flower arrangement that cost more than my first car. It looks nice. It smells like a funeral.
“We’re just swamped, Dad,” they text. “work is crazy.” “The kids have travel soccer.”
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