brunobaby

When the elevator doors open on the 10th floor of Cabrini Hospital, it says "Cabrini Hospice" in letters a foot high. They transferred Jim there this afternoon, and when I left this evening he had already enjoyed dinner, snacks and TV. There's a family lounge with free coffee. All the walls are painted this lilac color, and there's a little waterfall going all the time out near the nurses' station.

In one room, a very elderly Chinese man lies listening to a tape of Buddhist chants that plays continually all day. The sound filters down the hall and has an otherworldly quality to it. Every time I pass his room on the way to the lounge, I expect to see him levitating.

I've been casting surreptitious glances at the other patients as I walk down the hall. The hospice is a short-term facility, like Calvary. Some patients, like my husband, are awaiting imminent transfer to a long-term care facility. Others, like the elderly Buddhist, are awaiting imminent transfer to another world.

Our insurance is picking up the tab on this one, so the appointment with the Medicaid lady is no longer critical. This is a relief, since I still couldn't find my birth certificate despite turning two households and our safe deposit box upside down. But I'm pretty sure I was born. In fact, I was born at Cabrini Hospital.

Some days, you don't know whether you're coming or going.