My mom's face is held together by a surgeon's delicate wire. They tell me that her jawbones will heal with time. The same for her broken wrist, resting in a Swiss cheese-shaped wedge, made of Styrofoam. They say it is needed for proper circulation. The cream- and orange-colored walls of the hospital on Madison Avenue sicken me. The smells of fruit cocktail, cold cuts and unchanged bedpans hang in the air.

Death creeps along the hallways of the Intensive Care Unit waiting for something--or rather, someone to snatch from this world and take to another. Staking out an inconspicuous corner, Death simply waits. I suspect on some mornings it tiptoes behind the nurses' station to hear if Mr. So-and-So, who has liver cancer, or Ms. So-and-So, who suffers from pneumonia, will fully recover. Then their fate, I think, comes down to a simple coin toss.

I have never fancied visits to the hospital no matter if I am watching an episode of "ER" or if I am wandering the sterile hallways of one in real life, as I did years ago on a preschool class trip. I don't know proper hospital etiquette either. You can send get-well cards, balloons and bouquets of flowers. But what do you say to a relative or friend who, after having surgery, is left to ponder his or her own fate during sponge baths and snacks of lime Jell-O and crushed pain medicine? Visiting hospitals always tests my patience and faith in science and medicine. And I usually leave visiting hours thinking about life, death and the gods.

Testing my faith blindly

A reluctant visitor

Inside the ICU

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