The type of silence so thick you can hardly breathe. There’s nothing for Pamela or me to say. No plans to make. No strategies to discuss. We sit about a foot apart in her car, but there might as well be a thousand miles between us. The noise of the highway is deafening. The sound of Pamela tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel is even louder. I’m numb by the time we arrive. Scripps Hospital is a massive facility. It takes time to find the right entrance. The McDonald Center parking lot is packed. We drive in circles before finding a place to park. Pamela gets my suitcase from the backseat and drags the portable lounge out of the trunk. I have my cane in one hand and I tenuously carry the huge box of medications in the other. When we walk into the reception room of the McDonald Center to register, the staff members freeze and stare at me, wide-eyed. “What are you doing? You can’t bring those in here!” A male staffer exclaims as he runs up and grabs the box out of my hands like it’s a drug bust.
