It’s 4am and I’m in the ICU family waiting room awaiting news on my father. He has a rare autoimmune disorder, which I have touched on briefly before, but he had a random setback today and was rushed to the hospital by ambulance from my home. It’s been awful. Worse than awful. There are seven other people here. Three are from my family and four from another patient. The other four have a huge air mattress, while others are sleeping on chairs. We are scattered, covered in blankets and pillows I picked up at home. And socks. Socks seemed very important to me at the time. I’m the only one awake. Everyone else is asleep, or at least trying to sleep through the uncomfortableness and anxiety. Yet somehow, as exhausted and mentally drained as I am, I just can’t let myself fall asleep. Kind of reminds me of Nightmare on Elm Street. I’ve been checking on my dad every hour. Nothing has changed much which is good and not so good. I visited the chapel and sat there for awhile. And then, reluctant to go back, I decided to explore, thinking maybe I’d crack a smile if I found the maternity ward. While I know this particular hospital, the last time I was here was a little over two years ago for the birth of my daughter. We wanted to be here. It was a happy place then. Now it’s fucking hell. It’s funny how a hospital can seem so busy and yet at four in the morning, it’s like a ghost town. There are barely any patients or doctors walking around; no one is at the front desk except a security guard hidden behind the glass. The cafeteria is empty and the noise from the vending machines are making a curiously loud hum all night long (or morning for that matter). The lights are brighter and more fluorescent and everything seems sterile and gray. You discover random rooms and offices; like the residents’ library, located next to the waste management office or the sleep center hidden on the sixth floor with it’s own private elevator. It’s miserable here. I hope we get out soon.