Hospitals aren't those bright, cheery places that you see on television, with the little children recovering, bandaged happily with those smiles on their faces and their family gathered around them, waiting to take them home.
At least, that's not how Saint Victoria's was.
Saint Victoria's was a rather large, Catholic hospital in New England for the terminally ill.
Terminal.
I never liked that word.
Terminated, that was my life. My life that seemed like it had barely begun was suddenly…
Terminal.
My life was slowly killing me.
No one in Saint Victoria's had those TV smiles on their faces.
Of course, not many in Saint Victoria's had their families gathered around them, either. And no one was waiting to go home.
You didn't want to make friends in that place, because all it meant was waiting for another empty bed, for your friend to disappear. Everyday we passed each other fearfully in the halls, on the way to the showers, to the bathrooms, passed each other, not daring to stare into each other's eyes because we were afraid of those empty beds.
The cold, empty beds, where the sisters would come to change the sheets, shaking their heads sadly as they did their final task, removing any personal belongings from the bedside table.
"Oh, did you hear? So-and-so died today."
"Is that so? I had heard that he wasn't looking well."
Such casual conversation couldn't possible be referring to the dead…
But after a while in Saint Victoria's, you become desensitized to death.
You want to forget everything. Your friends, your family, the lonely room around you, your marriage, your home. You want to forget you're dying, but you can't.
That hacking cough is always there to remind you.
That cough, and that unfulfilled promise he made to me…
"We'll come back here, someday, Mary. I promise."