In spite of the medication the nurses gave her to sleep, she lay awake all night, crying out to God, praying, and crying some more. Even the pills could not drug it away. The truth of her situation could no longer be denied. She was never going home again. This place was her home now. She had been here for weeks, sinking into herself, dying.
It depressed her: the woman carrying the giant crazy stuffed bird-thing everywhere, even to meals; the hunched man in a ball-cap wheeling from room to room, even in the wee small hours of the morning, mindless; the rest lined up in front of the nurses' station, waiting for something, anything, to happen; the cold coffee; the dry cake. Stuck for the rest of life in this hole, waiting to die.
Morning overtook the long dark night and brought with it a gift, a friend. She wept prayers into her open arms. Two huddled praying against the horrors of life, old age, and death.
She combed her hair and looked around. Who were these people? Her roommates, that's right. She would learn their names now, work hard to remember them. She would tell them about Jesus. She would put on her glasses for the first time in weeks and open her Bible. What day was it? Wednesday? Another friend comes on Wednesday. She fixed her hair. She would recognize her friend this time, and remember her name. She would be ready to go for a walk. She would remember again how to play their favorite game. She would tell this friend of God's kindness, how He had not forgotten her in the dark weeks of her soul. She would tell her how, in the praying arms of a friend, He had filled her heart with hope.