Oh, stop complaining, all of you (well, I don't actually know whether you're complaining or not. But you might be...). This update didn't take nearly as long as the last one... did it? No. It didn't. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: NBC have stopped returning my calls. None of it's mine. Except.. no. Nothing.

Every day, keep making the same mistakes
Once again, I find myself in the same old place
And I'm wandering, wondering where to turn
There's a dead end straight ahead
Won't you take me home?

I hate hospitals. All hospitals – not just this one. No big shocker there, though. Add a dying mother to any building and it suddenly loses any appeal it might have had (which, incidentally, is the first thing you should bear in mind when you're trying to sell your house...). It's not just that, though – although that's probably enough to be getting on with – it's the white. They paint everything in the damn building white. Walls, floors... beds... if someone lies still for too long, they probably get the nearest nurse to give them a quick once over with a paintbrush and a dab of white paint.

I mean, why white? Don't they know that everything shows up on white? Come on – it's your basic rule! Blood is red. Red is darker than white. That means that any blood that might be... you know... splattered over the waiting room walls (don't even ask how it gets there – the people waiting in here probably get so sick of hanging around that they start slitting their wrists. Or each other's) is going to look even worse than it would do on dark walls!

You'd think that the doctors would realise this and hire a decorator or something (you know – when they're not busy saving lives or sleeping with the nurses or whatever it is that they do which keeps them from thinking about interior design).

I tap my fingers absent-mindedly on the hard plastic chair I'm sitting on. That's another thing that bugs me – the chairs. They know that people are going to be sticking around here for some time (hence 'waiting room' and not just 'casually passing through room'), so why don't they invest in some more comfortable furniture? I swear, for the amount of time these doctors spend at college, they don't know a lot about anything. (They were probably high most of the time, but still...) Really. Would it kill them?

Ouch. Bad choice of words. Suddenly, all these idioms that trivialise death and normally slip off my tongue are starting to rip chunks out of me. It isn't particularly pleasant (really?). I need to keep my mind steered well away from the taboo topic of... her... so I start a conversation with Phoebe. Idle talk to pass the time – something like that. Only, with Phoebe, nothing ever goes the way you think it's going to. She's the least predictable person I know – unfortunately, this isn't always a good thing.

And you said there's nothing you wouldn't do
And I answered, "There's nothing in this world I need you to do"
Just hold me in your arms; I feel so cold
There are dark clouds gathering
Won't you take me home?

"I'm sick of this damn room," I tell her. She appears to be having a staring contest with some guy across the room – either that, or this is her weird idea of some sort of twisted mating ritual. Seriously – reminds me of something I saw on the Discovery Channel. About skunks.

"Oh, totally," she replies distractedly, flicking a ball of dust between her index finger and thumb (See what I mean? Everything shows up here! People wouldn't complain so much about the state of our medical system if they just painted the walls a different colour!... I'm getting far too into this, aren't I?). "The feng shui's all wrong."

Yep. Obviously that is my priority. Feng shui. Totally. "I meant that I wish they'd let us see her," I mutter through gritted teeth, throwing any hope of not thinking about Monica out of the window, and wondering whether Phoebe will ever learn how to keep her mouth shut.

"Some of these people have filthy auras, too!" she burbles on, gesturing around the room with an outstretched arm swaying with bracelets. What am I talking about? Of course she won't.

She glances at me for a second before speaking. "She'll be okay, Jack..."

Oh, yeah. I am so sure. Because, you know, Phoebe is, of course, the daughter of God and therefore able to perform miracles. Oh, no. Wait. She's not. "Can you promise me that?" I ask, after a moment's pause. I think I can take a wild stab at what her answer's going to be. Here's a clue – it isn't 'yes'.

"No, but–". Oh, look. There we go. How did I ever guess?

"Then there isn't any point in you saying anything, is there? It's just going to make it worse, and, you know what? I'm not in the mood, Phoebe. I don't think I could cope with things getting any worse than this –" (famous last words, Mr Bing). Tears in my eyes (it's forgivable to cry in a hospital, right? I mean, it sort of... goes with the territory, doesn't it? God – only I could be worrying about what other people think of me at the moment. Maybe the kids at school who call me 'Fat Boy Loser' – okay, and the teachers – have a point...), I stand up and prepare to storm theatrically out of the room.

God. I am such a drama queen. I mean... oh, never mind. Did I just call myself a queen? Am I asking myself questions? (And the answer to both of those is going to be a resounding 'yes'...).

"Jack?" calls Phoebe, just as I reach the door.

"What?" I screech back, determined to keep my cool and, at all accounts, not make a scene (okay, so there's no chance of that ever actually happening, but that's not the point. It's nice to have an aspiration in life, right? No?).

"You're about to walk in on someone getting an X-ray," she tells me. Oh. That would probably be why the door I'm gripping the handle of has a sign reading 'X-ray Room', would it? Yeah – that might make some sense. "The way out's the other door."

Great. Just great. Forget keeping cool, then. I might as well just... dance around naked in front of my whole school or something. Because this isn't a nightmare already...

Although my anger at Phoebe has pretty much dissolved into a dull nothingness, I'm still keen to make a point (I can't quite remember what the point actually is... but I'm sure it's important). So I make my grand exit, slamming the door behind me (causing a pregnant lady to call me something that a woman in her condition definitely should not be saying... no, hang on. Since when does pregnancy make you polite?) and wander aimlessly into the hallway.

Oh, won't you take me home?

My Uncle Ross is sitting on a white (see? White! Everything!) chair in the main foyer of the hospital. Normally, I'd try to avoid him – somehow, I never really find myself in the mood for an in depth discussion about dinosaurs or whatever – but I figure that, right now, he's not going to rope me into his two man blow-by-blow reconstruction of Jurassic Park. Not in public.

"Hey," I mumble, taking the seat next to him and becoming attached to a large wad of chewing gum. Oh, great. Yeah, that is exactly what I need right now. Lucky old me.

"Hey, kid," he replies (I notice that I'm getting a lot of sympathetic 'hey, kid's now I'm in this position. You wait – as soon as it all blows over, it'll be back to 'Oi! You!' again. I kid not – just you wait...). "How's it going? Everything okay?"

Oh, sure. Everything's going just swimmingly. Except for, you know, my dying mother. But whatever. That's probably old news by now.

Monica who?

Got me wandering, wondering where to turn
There are dark clouds gathering
Won't you take me home?

"How could things be okay?" I ask him, folding my arms and trying to avert my gaze from the blindingly bright lights on the ceiling. A porter rushes through, pushing a stretcher with a bloodied and moaning man lying askew on it, and I'm suddenly very aware of my stomach, and the food inside it which is trying to push its way right back up. I should never have had that fifth bar of chocolate. He doesn't answer. I don't expect him to. I don't think that anyone could answer that question (with the possible exception of Steven Hawking, who, you know, is really smart). "What happened, Ross?"

I don't know whether I wanted to ask that question or not. My stomach definitely doesn't want me to – it's leaping right into my mouth in protest, but... I need to know how she got here. I've got to know.

He swallows, licking his lips hesitantly (he obviously hasn't noticed that he's sitting right next to the drinks vending machine). "We- we went to the airport. To pick up Anthony. You know – Mon's boyfriend." (Yes, yes. I'm painfully aware of who Anthony is, thanks). "I was waiting outside in the car while she went into the terminal. She wanted to meet him right off the plane – you know what kind of a person she is." Somehow, reminding me how wonderful my mother was – is! – doesn't make it hurt any less that she's in here right now. "I was just reaching to turn my radio on when I heard this... this-" He shivers (that's another thing – can't the government afford heating in hospitals? Would it really cost that much?). "This... bang and then... a scream and then I knew that it was her."

"What happened to Anthony?" I ask – aware that this isn't the part of the story I should be concentrating, but also far too certain that if I start thinking about the other bit, then I might cry. And it's not that I'm scared of other people hearing me if I do – more scared that I might never stop.

And that would take up a lot of tissues.

Ross shrugs. "One of the paramedics said they'd sort out ringing him or something. He'll probably be here any time now. Great welcome party he's getting, huh?"

I nod, while mentally forming a message to God. When I said I wanted him to break Anthony and my Mom up, I did not mean by doing this. Seriously. I am one seriously unhappy customer – is it possible to sue our Lord? I'm distracted from planning my prayer as I become aware of two men in dark coats standing a few metres away from our chairs and staring at... us. I nudge Ross and jerk my head in their direction.

He looks up for a second, blinks, and takes a visible double take. "Joey?" he cries. "Chandler?"

Okay. You know when I said that I couldn't cope if things got any worse? Watch me stop coping right about now.

Oh please, won't you take me home?
Oh, won't you take me home?

Too long? Too short?

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