ABSTRACT
My older daughter and I are at Bloomington Hospital. In radiology. Radiology has a huge saltwater aquarium, laminate wood flooring, and CNN on the wide-screen television. It's all quite calming. This is because if you're in radiology, something's likely gone wrong: something is inside you that should not be. A piece of glass is embedded in my right foot. It's been there for weeks, ever since I accidentally stepped on a large shard of picture glass under my bed. I pulled the largest piece out myself, but I'm told that sometimes smaller pieces break off in the flesh. They hang out. They cause problems. Still, I've preferred to walk with a limp, engaging in the hope that the glass will somehow magically work itself out of my foot. Why? I fear hospitals. I don't trust physicians. I deeply loathe the medical establishment. “Hug me,” I tell my daughter. She's eight. “I'm afraid of hospitals.”
