My life was reduced to the constant beep of monitors and the stench of antiseptic the night my husband Daniel was admitted to the hospital following a car accident.
Another motorist ran a red light when he was making his way home from work. He was fortunate to be alive, according to the doctors, but it would take weeks for him to heal.
I was barely out of the hospital, sleeping in a rigid chair next to his bed, getting by on coffee from the vending machine and worrying.
I became aware of the elderly woman in the adjacent bed at that point.
Margaret was her name. Her silver hair was always beautifully braided, and she appeared to be in her late seventies. She was as slender as a leaf.
No one ever came to see her, unlike us. No kids, no spouse, no flowers on the nightstand. Meals brought by nurses were frequently returned undamaged.
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