Staying with someone in a hospital is like being on a plane. Time seems to have a different shape. Sleeping is awkward. Old newspapers pile up. You talk to strangers at odd hours, intimately, in the dark.

R.’s bed has an inflatable mattress. About every 15 minutes it cranks up with air which sounds like an ATV roaring into the room. The idea of noisy beds in a hospital is puzzling.

Sunshine outside. You can see the Getty on top of a hill from this room. Earlier: who knew that dawn started to break at 4:57 am?

Beatrice sends me a picture she just took of Nelson sleeping in the office. He’s confused by the schedule this week, the comings and goings, but he looks  contented in the photo.

A stepdaughter sleeps on the bench by the window wrapped up in a white blanket, just the top of her head showing, her Ugg boots on the floor next to the bench.

There’s a sign on the wall that says Welcome to the Oncology Unit. This appeals to my love of dark humor. Maybe the title of a poem?

R. naps. Tomorrow we all go home.