Hospital coffee

It’s much better than it used to be. Hospital coffee, I mean. You can get varieties now. There are carts that give you as many choices as you could ever want. Not that it matters much to me.

Black, usually with caffeine.

The other week as I was walking down the hall carrying a cup of coffee, I wondered whether it would bother the person I was visiting. Then I decided that I wouldn’t worry about it. He wasn’t concerned much, either. He was more concerned about getting out.

He did.

Four of us had coffee today. The man we were visiting is still being fed through his vein. A little water is all he can drink. But he’s getting better. The stem cell transplant is working. So far. (And the prognosis is good).

The sleeve of today’s cup talked about change. It was about heart and cancer screenings, about changing habits for better health, making life changes.

That’s probably a good idea, actually.

I mean, hospital visits don’t make me queasy anymore. In fact, it’s kind of a honor to show up and talk and listen and hold a hand and pray. It’s a welcome low-tech, high-touch break for both of us-the person in the bed and me.

But as I think about it, if we put as much money into research, into care, into meds, into prevention as we do into all of our coffee choices, maybe there wouldn’t be as much need to visit.

And drink hospital coffee.

After all, I’d rather meet in a global coffee chain.

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