When I was five years old, I spent the night in the hospital after getting my tonsils removed. I knew what was happening and why, but when I woke up in the morning, I wanted my parents. It wasn’t my sore throat as much as a cold heaviness in my chest — I felt so alone. I lay quietly, the tears sliding down my cheeks. Eventually a nurse came by and asked if I was alright. I said I wanted my parents. She assured me they would be there later, which I already knew, but I wanted them sooner. It seemed a long while before they came to take me home.
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