Because it is all right to be in a bad mood there,slouching along through the underground garage,riding wordlessly on the elevator with the other customers,staring at the closed beige doors like a prison wall.I like the hospital for the way it grants permission for pathos—the mother with cancer deciding how to tell her kids,the bald girl gazing downward at the shuntinstalled above her missing breast,the crone in her pajamas, walking with an IV pole.I don’t like the smell of antiseptic,or the air-conditioning set on high all night,or the fresh flowers tossed into the wastebasket,but I like the way some people on their plastic chairsbreak out a notebook and invent a complex scoring systemto tally up their days on earth,the column on the left that says, Times I Acted Like a Fool,facing the column on the right that says, Times I Acted Like a Saint.I like the long prairie of the waiting;the forced intimacy of the self with the self;each sick person standing in the middle of a field,like a tree wondering what happened to the forest.And once I saw a man in a lime-green dressing gown,hunched over in a chair; a man who was notyelling at the doctors, or pretending to be strong,or making a murmured phone call to his wife,but one sobbing without shame,pumping it all out from the bottom of the self,the overflowing bilge of helplessness and rage,a man no longer expecting to be saved,but if you looked, you could seethat he was holding his own hand in sympathy,listening to every single word,and he was telling himself everything.