Hospitals

You forget little things about your old life. Don't you? Mine was our therapist. He was a terrific therapist--kind, funny, insightful, able to validate both of our feelings without putting the other person on the defensive. We'd all but annihilated the awful, gut-wrenching, screaming and crying and storming away type fights we used to have--I mean, we hadn't had any like that in a long time, but we really put them in the ground with Dr. M. And we were making progress in everything, even the sex department. Then along came the attacks and all this goes on the back burner.

On Wednesday I found out that Dr. M. had died. It had nothing to do with the revenants and everything to do with them. He woke up one morning with a terrible pain in his side. His wife rushed him to the hospital, but there was an outbreak going on and they were funnelling everyone through this labrynthine security detour into shitty makeshift facilities, and by the time the doctors got to him the aneurysm had burst.

I miss him a lot. I don't understand death, I don't think. It's like your life is a line that's being drawn, drawn, drawn, and then all of a sudden the line stops. He was there and now he's not.

This also highlights something I've been meaning to say, and I wonder if they'll ever start saying it officially: Hospitals are accidents waiting to happen. I've heard about a couple of situations that got totally out of control, even AFTER the initial outbreak was quelled. And yes, that's on the East Coast. You take sick, wounded, bitten people and concentrated them in big buildings, and all it takes is one person to slip away in his sleep. Pretty soon you could have a whole floor full. And not every area has the kind of security infrastructure that Nassau seems to have at this point. Hell, you see what happens when they stumble across a pocket in Manhattan. Hospitals are self-resupplying pockets, basically. I do not like being so near Nassau University Medical Center, that's for sure.

And I miss my therapist.