I was not allowed to swallow food or liquid of any kind; even water was forbidden. My throat became dry, despite its occasional rinsing, and the tube which ran from my nose to my stomach only hindered the situation. I decided to test my luck and ask for ice, reasoning that the excessive coldness might aid my throat to a degree, even though I could not actually swallow any of it. Since my saliva would become frigid through the presence of the ice, perhaps the throat would benefit from the slight trickling of cold moisture. To my amazement, they agreed to give me a glass of ice chips at various intervals through the day providing I would only chew the ice, and then spit it into a metal bowl for that specific purpose; I shook my head "yes" in vigorous excitement at the proposal. In time, I was even allowed to swallow one or two teaspoonsful of ice each time. It was a small, but significant favor, for which I was exceedingly grateful. As I improved, I sought other forms of entertainment aside from watching television, which included the use of my hands. In my opinion, the hospital craft room was an ingenious installment. I had always loved art, and in that room, one could purchase various kits which were self-contained, having all the necessary tools and materials, for a minimal price. It took no time at all before I had selected two kits, and dispatched myself to my room to begin the projects. I also enjoyed drawing, and having remembered my sketch book from home, I made several drawings from the items in my room and the objects I saw in magazines. When I was not involved with drawing, however, I lusted at the food photographs and greedily read each mouth-watering recipe. It must have seemed a curious endeavor, for my parents would watch me in good-natured humor as I sat enthralled, a mere twig propped between numerous pillows, lingering over pictures as if I was haunted by food's memory. Mom and Dad would eat lunch outside of the hospital, and often walked about afterward to exercise their stiff limbs. Neither of them were idle folk, and the long, exhaustive hours spent with me were difficult for that reason, as well as many, more obvious ones. It was fortunate that I happened to be hospitalized during August, for the weather was fine and conducive to jaunts through a park or the city streets. A shopping mall was located in the area, and they would often stop there to buy a small gift, which they would present to me upon their return. As the weeks progressed I had collected a menagerie of small clay animals which I displayed on a nearby nightstand; it was affection made visible. When my parents were gone, the treasures were a reminder of their love throughout the night; staring vacantly out the window, I knew that despite the impersonal glare of the city lights below, two of the people out there cared for me.