Inside to the right was the florist that used to be run by a
lady who became very friendly with my mother. She always had
a kind word for both of us. I remember elbowing my mother
when she got too deep in conversation, because I was keen to
get home before the vomiting began.
She was not there.
To the left was the cafeteria, and I could see that that had
changed also. I thought I recognised one of the ladies serving.
She had straight blonde hair which had crept over her pencilled
eyebrows, and a quite obvious excess of make-up. Yes, although
she had aged a little, I could tell it was her. She would not
remember me.
I couldn't help it. That sickly feeling in my stomach had arisen
again. It was just the environment, and the memories. Knowing
that it was only in my mind didn't help though, because I felt
genuinely sick.
Just to make sure, I asked about the placement of the ward
for leukaemia patients, and sure enough it had been moved. When
I walked from the lift I was confronted with change. Nothing
seemed the same. There were no familiar faces, and even the
layout of the ward looked different.
"Can I help you?"
She wore the uniform of a sister, and closely cropped hair.
"Yes, my name is Wayne Reed," I knew that would probably
mean nothing to her, "and I am an ex-patient."
There was still a sense of confusion behind her bright smile.
"I was just wondering whether there were any new patients
here, who would like to talk to me."
"Yes, there certainly are."
As we walked towards some single rooms, she asked excitedly
about my history. There was that understanding there, that
physical evidence of success could do more for the morale of
patients than any books or promises.

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