What was supposed to be a routine tonsilectomy has clearly been anything but. Eight days and two hospitals later my five year old is still on morphine and a steady IV drip. The Children's hospital is great, but if they keep giving out paint sets, stuffed animals, and Thirty-one bags every time the kid takes a bite of a Popsicle, we may never get out of here.
Hell, I will drink that saline solution straight outta the bag if it meant I could blow this joint and get a chicken taco.
As a matter of fact, I did blow this joint last night, if only for an hour. While Kooka sat with Yoda, I dragged Rico through the underground tunnel system that connects this hospital, the major hospital, and the rehabilitation center just so we could get a McDonald's tea in the grown up hospital.
As we ducked around corners, underneath heating ducts, past the old morgue, and through the electrical workshop, Rico asked me, "Are you sure you know where your going?"
"Oh yeah. If there's one thing I know in this building, it's how to get out of this tunnel."
Kooka asked me the same thing when I took her there tonight. "Oh my god, what IS this place? Do you actually know where we're going?"
Why in the name of god do I know how to get from the sixth floor of the Children's hospital, past the morgue, up the elevator, down the therapy wing, to the Mcdonalds and back again?
Because I used to live here.
Rico already knew. Kooka probably did too, but forgot. Either way they were both surprised that nearly 30 years later, I can still find my way around. For two months this place was my home. I even took Kooka to the fifth floor -station 52, to see my old room, which is now part of the sleep center.
Ironic, since we never seemed to get much sleep there.
It is a great story. I hope someday I'll get to tell it to them. Maybe when we get out of here.