With my stomach on a slow route to recovery, I had not eaten for many days, nor would I hope to eat for many more. The pancreas needed to heal as well, and the doctors would not allow food to pass through my lips until it had shown signs of improvement. I did not have a breakfast tray to look forward to each morning, so after one of the doctors stopped by, I would roll off the bed, and, escorted by my parents, walk down the halls, leaning slightly from the tightness of the incision and grasping the pole on which my IV hung suspended, still dripping a tasteless breakfast into my vein. During these strolls, my "nose hose" was detached from the suction mechanism and clipped to my gown like a hideous corsage. At first I was embarrassed by the decidedly gruesome appearance of the hose, filled as it was, with mucous and blood, but eventually I grew accustomed to the people on the floor and discovered, also, that others wore my unusual apparatus as well. Perhaps misery does not love company as much as it loves compassion and understanding. Thus I would skirt the corridors in both directions, heading "right" toward the craft room, or "left" which lead to the canteens. Usually taking a left turn out of my room, I would amble down the hall to contemplate the vast selection of cold sandwiches, snacks and candy which could be had simply through feeding one's pocket change into the coin slots. I stood wistfully before the machines, pointing out to my parents what I would choose when I could eat food again. Although the stomach suction prevented me from feeling hunger pangs, it was the taste of food that I so horribly missed. Moreover, mealtime broke the monotony of a bland routine; it was something pleasant to do, exercising the mouth. It disturbed me to see someone jawing his food disinterestedly or poking at a meal which, in his opinion, lacked aesthetic appeal. Meal trays would often be returned sporting a delectable piece of dessert or fruit; I would peer at the specimens, sighing that I could not save the morsel from the trash heap. Food became my favorite mind-game as my stomach gradually healed. We pursued the canteen route quite frequently throughout the day, and each time I would gaze at the treats, yearning for a taste of something. . . anything. . .besides the mint of my toothpaste.