You know you have spent too much time in the hospital when conversations like the following are possible. Mom went to the hospital yesterday for a blood draw and fluids.

"The girl in the lab asked about you. Asked where you were."

"Which?"

"The blond. I told her you found a job. She was happy for you."

"There are two blonds in the lab. The one who had her son in high—"

"No, she has darker hair. The one who worked at the prison?" I nodded. "She's not blond."

"She is so. Anyway, so it was the one who found her husband cheating on her and then married someone seven years younger."

"Yes, her. She's pregnant. I asked."

"Did accessing your port hurt this time?" I frowned. "I wasn't there to hold your hand."

"It was fine...They had to access it twice." At my quizzical look, "That's how they administered my fluids too. The little nurse in the chemo area did it."

"The one from last time? Short blond hair?"

"No, the cute little one."

"Cute little one..."

"Has a baby?"

"Oh! HER! She is adorable...and gentle."

And it went on and on and on...and Brenda looked over at us like we were speaking Greek, really boring Greek, and hoisted herself from the plush chair. She returned to the room with beer in hand.