Lemon, Lime.

November 22*

I star today in my journal because I’m trying to be optimistic. It’s Thanksgiving, but here at the hospital, I’m not expecting a feast. Though, I can’t remember anything different. When I squeeze my eyes really tight and flip over the last ten years, all I come back with is the hospital. Hospital. Hospital. Hospital. The dry turkey. The too garlic-y stuffing. The cranberry sauce made with actual cranberries—which is ungodly. The nurses are putting on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade for all of the kids to watch right now, and I think about moving to another room. But where would I go? The sterilization cabinet, with all of the blue latex gloves and syringes? On second thought, I’ll just stay right here.

Some kids flood in the room, dragging their oxygen tanks, scooting in their metal walkers, or whirring by me in electric wheelchairs. These are the kids I know deserve better. I mean, we all do. But these kids, they really don’t deserve it. I’m older. I can handle the poking, the needles, the constant monitoring. But no one should know a hospital before they even step into kindergarten.

I looked for Bobby, my favorite kid of the hospital, but I didn’t see him. He must be getting a breathing treatment in the East Wing. I spent a good while of my time in the East Wing, and sort of miss it. More cheery over there in EW. That’s where all the kids go, then they transfer you over where I am, to West Wing, when you get too old. Really, the only bridge that connects East Wing kids to West Wing teens is the playroom. I like this playroom. I spent a lot of time in here. Some of the witchy nurses say I don’t socialize enough. It’s because I don’t feel like it, I’d much rather watch the kids watch TV. When they check my journal today, they’ll get on me because I haven’t written about my vitals yet, or if I had any flares. It’s because I don’t feel like writing about that. At least not today. I have a flavorless buffet of traditional pilgrim foods waiting in the cafeteria after the eighty-millionth viewing of the parade. They’ll probably ask how I’ve been feeling since I didn’t put it down yet. I think I’m being too honest in this journal, knowing that I have a whole team of doctors who will open these pages and read them. Oh well, it’s my journal and I will not lie to it. I’ll endure for the interrogating when it comes. I’ll climb that mountain when I come to it. I’ll watch the parade for just a little more. (A Spongebob float is sailing in the air. All of the kids are screaming. Their screams both are both deafening and hopeful. I am sad. *The underline is so you can easily find out how I’m feeling, Dr. J.* )

One kid just fell out of his wheelchair, because he was too overcome with the joy of Spongebob. A nurse came in and had to buckle him back in. I laughed from the corner of the room, and thank God no one noticed. I might’ve been put on probation again. Well, I’m getting tired and my hands are starting to tingle. It is almost time for my aloe strips and IV drip anyway. Tomorrow I will write about the food.

-Ceres