I am sitting in a firm recliner with a wipeable surface during a two-day hospital admission for testing at our local children’s hospital. The chair is designed for durability, not sleep. The pillow beneath my head is flat and smells faintly of disinfectant. A thin hospital blanket scratches against my arms as I shift, unsuccessfully, trying to rest. The room is dim but never quiet. Monitors beep. Machines hum. Footsteps pass the door. Hospital noise does not fade. It embeds itself in the nervous system.
My 13-year-old is finally asleep. His thin body is curled beneath a blanket identical to mine. One shoulder peeks out, bruised from repeated injections of calming medication. A neon orange bandage marks the most recent one, given about an hour ago. I watch his chest rise and fall and allow myself a brief moment of relief.
