Today I went to the hospital. I don't like the hospital nearly as much as I like the prison.
In fact, seeing it usually makes me shudder. I have never had to be admitted to one, thank God, but disease is right at the top of my fear list.
As I walked toward the entrance this dismally dark November evening, of course I had another horrible, dark November evening in mind: two years ago, when I came to this same hospital to say a final, too-late farewell to my father who had been taken from me without warning. That time, as I waited in the car park for the rest of my family, I was leaning against my car and paralyzed by shock.
But in this hospital, I was also born once. Since then, I have come here on a few occasions, even during the years when I lived far away - to see a newborn nephew, to visit an ailing grandfather, to bring a sick friend to the emergency room one late evening when we had to wait for hours and watched an icehockey game in the waiting room. Once, by a ridiculous coincidence, I had a Valentine's Day date in the dull cafeteria here. Another time I visited a friend who was a patient but also belonged to the hospital staff - he took me on a weird walk through the mysterious basement tunnels.
Today I suddenly remembered these things. I thought I hated this building. But I can't just dismiss something that is a part of my history.
The joy of this particular occasion probably helped. I took the lift to the maternity ward and was met by one of my best friends with a day-old baby in her arms. No matter how cynical and world-weary I am, that sight made me feel that maybe, just maybe, all is well with the world.
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