Hospital.

A lot of people hate hospitals. I can understand that. I'm indifferent to them at best. They are filled with strange and unidentifiable smells, arcane equipment, many people on unspoken errands. There is a scale and sense of purpose to them that makes me feel like an animal -- a cat or dog, something little and domestic, that will never quite understand the workings of its masters' world.

I am only ever in hospitals at the worst of times, of course. This surgery, my father's stroke. Watching Uncle Jack dying in his cancer bed. But they are places of hope, and of help, as many miracles and stories here as doors.

This hospital feels very far away from everything I know and love; the view out the window, with its buttes and scrublands, might as well be the surface of Mars.

There are many small joys here. There's free coffee -- one of the best courtesies in life. And this computer, which has been free every time I've wanted to use it. (I think you're only supposed to be able to use it to surf the web, but since I can telnet out, I'm taking that as permission.)

treebyleaf is doing so much better than I had any right to expect. She is growing stronger and healthier, and is happy, genuinely happy, to have retcon and I by her side. Each smile is a gift.

She's going to be fine. They estimate her body has been dealing with this since she was eight years old. And now its gone. And her doctor, a world class expert, doesn't think it's ever going to come back. She's going to be stronger and healthier and happier than I've ever known her. I look forward to getting to know her all over again.

I miss everyone. I can't wait to see your faces again, hear your laughter, touch your hands, breathe your scent.