Which is ironic considering that my dad has worked in them for my entire life and I have pretty much grown up in them. I was only nearly admitted once – I think I must have been like 9 or 10. That year, I got chicken pox, followed by the flu, which turned into pneumonia and a vomiting virus, which led to me being dehydrated. Not good things. So my folks brought me to the ER where they hooked me up to an IV.
I hate everything about hospitals. I hate how they’re not comfortable, how they all smell the same (and it’s always that same wierd hospital smell – the combination of cafeteria food and something else that I’m not quite sure what it is) even if you’re in different states or different parts of the country. I also hate how stressed out they make me and how depressed. I hate how one day in the hospital can age you ten years, at least. The time just seems to drag by and you don’t think that you’re going to get through it all. I think that I hate hospitals because I had a bad experience in one not too long ago and my mind associates them with the intense pain and depression that I fell into.
Anyways, I’m home for the night and I’m exhausted. Nate is doing better. Since he was admitted to the hospital, he hasn’t had a fever. They’ve started IV drugs and fluids and Nate’s rash is going away. He was also eating and drinking more and starting to act like his normal self again. It was so nice to see. I missed my happy son. And quite frankly I was freaked out. But now he seems to be doing so much better.