the hospitable .
i don’t like hospitals. i remember having been a couple of times in my life, very briefly. apparently i was in there for months when i was about two, but that blissfully escapes me.
to be honest, i’ve never visited someone i really cared about. when i was seven, i went to visit my dying grandfather whom i had known as an abusive alcoholic for my entire life. even now i remember him, my only deceased grandparent, as a smelly drunk who gave me sultanas on his deathbed.
apart from that, i’ve visited a distant relative and a distant friend. i’ve rocked up with a fourty degree fever only to be told by a stupid nurse that i should take my clothes off because my body was at such a high temperature.
today, i attempted to visit someone, only to find that they had checked out an hour earlier.
as you can see, none of them have been very emotional memories for me.
i can’t imagine what it’s like to have a loved one stay there, or be admitted yourself. they’re such terrible places where the people always seem either disgusted, tired or relieved, and there are bits and pieces of death defiance everywhere. even though they’re probably thoroughly cleaned, they seem so dirty.
i don’t think i’ll ever decide to go to a hospital again. it’s not worth it for the people that don’t matter, and if it’s for myself or someone that does matter, it won’t be a decision, it will be a reaction.
and if, one day, i find myself wandering the chemically white corridors with strangely polished floors, i’ll remind myself not to peek into the windows. you should probably do the same.