It was scheduled to be a routine visit, a yearly check-up that fortunately proved that things were clear and well. I could not shook the mild anxiety that always invades me when having to go back. You would think that having grown between hospitals while following my workaholic-doctor parents would make it easier. It has not. I never liked hospitals.

This one, although beautiful and full of cheerful, kind staff, had been by far the hardest to visit. Seating in the waiting room, seeing kids battling cancer, some without a leg, without hair, in wheelchairs or walking with their chemo medicine hanging from a stand makes my stomach hurt. Then there are the parents, who have to remain calm for their kids, pretending life goes on as usual despite scary diagnosis. Nothing makes me suffer more that a hurting child and a broken-hearted parent that swallows their suffering for the sake of their kid’s hope. I can be a rock for so many things, but not for that.