Besides the time I was born, I've only ever stayed in a hospital once. It was shortly after Roger and I got married and I developed a bladder infection--yes, go ahead and snicker at my cliche life--that wouldn't respond to standard antibiotic treatments. I was there for three nights.
Being in the hospital reminded me that even if we have a good imagination and even if we listen carefully to other people tell about their experiences, we still can't quite know what some things feel like until we experience them for ourselves.
The way your life is suddenly not at all on your terms. The interruptions. The vulnerability. The orders. The gowns. The procedures. The way you must humble yourself over and over so they can get--let's just say--a proper sense of how your body is functioning.
But also the toasty warm blanket that a kind nurse brings and puts right up against your skin when you're so cold in the middle of the night and wait longer than you need to push the call button because you don't want to be a bother. And the realization that you aren't.