One Summer, A Hospital Visit

My mother had gone over seas for eight weeks--not, in fact, two months, as I had corrected my grandmother when she spoke to the checkout lady at the grocery store. To keep my brother and I busy, and less of a hassle for my grandmother, a number of activities had been planned for the entire time.

Except my grandfather had a stroke.

He was in the hospital for months, and every afternoon, my grandmother would call us in from playing outside, and we would get cleaned up to go see him.

I adored seeing my grandfather, but hated going to the hospital. It smelled of obscure chemicals and unwashed people. The creepy quiet was only intermittently interrupted by the squeak of rubbery nursing shoes or the beep of machinery. And everything was too bright.

One particular afternoon, I whined to my grandmother that I didn't want to go. Of course I did, I wanted to see my grandfather, but going to the hospital knotted up my stomach and made me anxious in ways I didn't understand.

My grandmother was an easygoing woman, but this drew a sharp response from her. We were going. My grandfather was sick and lonely. How would I like it if I were all alone all day in the hospital? Wouldn't I want someone to come see me?

So I went and got changed. I felt guilty for having complained about it, when I knew deep down that he enjoyed having us visit. I didn't yet understand that it was my own fear of seeing him in that state that caused my anxiety.