At the hospital once again. You had been going to St. Agatha General Hospital every week without a break for a month now, always feeling sick as if you were going to faint at any second—with your blood sugar always below normal for a diabetic.

The doctors and nurses already knew you by name—they always knew why you were there, so they already knew what to do. Tests and more tests were done by your personal doctor, and there you have it—an unbalanced case of diabetes that could only be controlled with medication. It was already a big problem, so it got worse—not that it didn't happen in your life often enough.

Before you could get used to the idea of taking more medicine than expected—another day in the hospital, another day feeling sick, and a doctor who didn't know you yet. Insulin in your vein, it almost killed you—taking your diabetes so low that you passed out. A medical error that almost cost you your life.

Two full days in the ICU, and even if you were awake, they wouldn't let you out—if they did, they would just take you to a room, not let you leave the hospital like you wished. It just sucked not being able to take a shower without a nurse helping you like you were some stupid weirdo—it was her job anyway, but it was just really annoying for you.

It seemed better to get out of that morbid, silent place and into a more comfortable, private, and bright room, but it wasn't exactly the freedom you wanted—your only source of entertainment was the built-in TV. Of course, discharge only when you're fully recovered, and no one could tell you how long that would take. Boring, boring, boring.

And, as had happened once again all week, Doctor Mayhew walked through the door—giving a kind smile to your mother who was trying to get you to eat that weird hospital soup, unsuccessfully, obviously. “You should eat, it is important for your recovery,” he argued. Charlie came to visit you every day, even though he wasn't the doctor in charge of you anymore. “If you don't eat, I won't let them let you go.”