Treatment

You learn to not use the word "anxious." They have syringes for that. If you say "impatient" or "concerned," they generally give you the soothing voice. But not the needle. Frankly, they do not care.

They know what they are doing, and you don't, so it does not matter if you are ready--you feel--to go. They will simply ask the same questions about frequency, consistency, texture, and shade. It's a personal experience laid out on charts swapped between shifts.

Some use their names, they introduce themselves--expecting no doubt to establish friendships for life or six hours. But they do it for relaxation--calming the patient, so they think they have control. At any moment they can shout out "Sarah!" as if it's a beloved friend that may or may not be several feet away. It's a fallacy--you are powerless. Pipes sprout from your backhands, gowns of indeterminate size and fashion replace familiar fabric, and you are checked upon. Eternally checked upon.

They do not like each other. The same stay with the same; different ranks exist and the Betweens mumble--some more loudly--"Why didn't she..." "Why did they..." "Who do THIS?!"

You get old in a hospital bed. Instantly, your body weighs down, your skin weak. You are suddenly feeble, as if the simple willpower of the Bed knows better that you must be in dire need of rest. Insomnia persists, but you hang there motionless, ready whenever the nightwatching god decides you can close your eyes, until they need you again.