My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Because it is a hospital we may think people bring to it just their illness, as we can think they bring only a mind to school and a soul to church. Wherever they are, they are there with the wholeness of their being.
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