“Who are you here to visit,” the hospital security guard asks. My heart pulses and my throat constricts. I’ve avoided going near this building since my husband’s death. Since too many days, nights, hours in the ER, in cheerless rooms, waiting for doctors, test results, something hopeful. Days pacing the grounds to escape the stifling mixture of body odors, antiseptics, sorrow. Nights searching the underground parking labyrinth, full when I arrived at dawn, unnervingly empty late at night when I left, spent. The last stop before hospice. Will joy erase pain? My voice catches. “My daughter-in-law and my newborn grandson.”
Linda Dreeben lives in Maryland and has published pieces in Wild Greens, Months to Years, Roi Fainéant Press, Struggle Magazine, and Five Minutes.