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Thursday, July 3


I will not soon forget, the incessant beeping of machines that told me numbers I did not understand. The loud and tinny foreign singing coming from the cell phone of a Korean heart patient across the hall. The rushing whoosh of oversized elevators shooting up and down, people coming and going, all through the night. The cold, unyielding feel of a white bench, meant to be more of a decorative object than utilized by a young girl to sleep on, against my cheek, hip and legs, as I tried desperately to sleep in the third floor lobby of a building meant to heal -- one that had only taught me to feel pain. But that bench could have been a plush mattress from a five-star hotel, dressed with sheets so soft they could make Martha Stewart weep. That bench could have been those things, and still, I would have slept as minimally as I did last night. Because how can I close my eyes and drift when the muttered rants of an increasing senile man echo in my ears, calling me from around the corner and down the hall. How can I sleep when my grandpa is helpless in a bed in room 386.

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