NO ONE likes hospitals. Of course, when we need them, we thank God they’re there, and we hope we, or our loved ones, are in a good one. My mother-in-law, God bless her, is in a hospital now down in Orange County, and it’s as beautiful a facility as you’re ever going to run into, I guess. But I noticed several things there, and I think these are universal. First, as you walk from the parking lot into the hospital you see people who’ve just checked out, heading home with their families. Obviously, they are very happy. But look closer, next time. The happiness they have, especially the ex-patients, is deep, glowing, radiating. As we all know, when it comes to the hospital, many check in, but not so many check out, and the ones that do are left, even temporarily, with a reflective mien. Grateful. Thoughtful. “Didn’t get me this time. Let’s get out of here. Quickly. Guy in the next room won’t make it. I did. Why? I don’t know. Come on. Faster. I need to start forgetting.”

Lucky people. Another observation is how quickly we learn our way around the hospital. Going out for coffee, or to make a call, we all know, very soon, where we’re going, don’t we? Down here, turn left, past the oncology lab, not those elevators, they’re too slow, the back ones, around the corner, are faster. We learn the paths easily, and the place begins to feel familiar. We can even spot newcomers, and we smirk a little, inwardly, as they pass us, tentatively looking around. Go on, we silently urge, a little further, check at the nurses’ station. They’ll tell you where Uncle Pete is. I’m going to the commissary. Easy to find. You’ll know soon.