My Elderly Relative (my stepdad John) has been battling a variety of bad things this fall, as you might have surmised if you see/read Facebook or even Instagram. Being the relative of a sick one guarantees a lot of downtime and waiting in a hospital, filled by bad snacks and lots of social networking. All these pictures are sad and are pretty good at providing a leaden feeling similar to what spending a shapeless day at St. John’s Hospital is all about.

Pro tip: to make your neglected, shitty, and filthy car (left) a little less horrendous, park next to an even more neglected, shitty, and filthy car (right).

It’s been a very bad day. I spent most of it in a mask and gown and gloves trying to calm and soothe a dude who has absolutely no reason nor motivation to be calm/soothed. I can’t stomach to discuss the disaster that he is in, except that it involves a wound.

Hilarious, a thumbs-up! I found that crying while wearing a face mask produced an excruciating headache, probably caused by a bit of oxygen deprivation. The gloves were the worst, however — each finger was lodged its own tight little sweatlodge. Ugh.

This is when morale started to plummet. I rushed downstairs to the cafeteria in the late afternoon, fearful I’d miss talking to the doctor (who did not show up until 4 hours after promised). The cafe was closed, so I made the mistake of opening a portal to hell called “Vending Machines.” I had $2.25 to my name, which got me the saddest vending machine burrito in the world, made sadder by no paper towels and a filthy microwave. I know this experience isn’t all about me, but holy moley — do the powers that be need to make anyone visiting a hospital feel any worse than they do?

I can’t end this post with any pithy tidy line, I’m in the front lines and I’m so scared. He’s so sick.