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Mostly my father just sits here in the hospital bed—like a Buddha—awake and aware. What’s it like in there? I cannot fathom the question.
The Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul founded this hospital in 1916. You could see them, walking the city, walking Riverside, in their elaborate starched habits that looked like ossified wings or horns flung out from their heads.
It’s time for my father to go home. (More than a decade ago, he told me it was okay when it was time for him to go.)