Departure

    When my son was five years old, he was a patient at Child's Hospital to have his tonsils removed.  The hospital was named after a person, not limited to caring for children, but we were in the pediatric unit.
   During our stay, there was a total of  about six to ten babies who'd had surgery to correct cleft palates.  They were all about one year old, the age when they could best tolerate the surgery.  It was usual to see  nurses and other attendants  put them in wheeled  highchairs and take them along on their rounds.  The reason was to avoid the babies' being isolated in their cribs for long periods of time.  The reason for the babies being isolated was the absence of their  parents, most of them anyway. The rule in the ward for that type of surgery, dealing with the palate and lips, was that parents were not to visit unless they could stay the entire recovery period.  For when the parents would leave, the babies would cry, and thus jeopardize their healing.
   We were in the hospital three or four days, and amidst all those babies, I don't recall hearing any of them cry. Perched in their highchairs in the doorways of the other patient's rooms, they mostly sat and observed in silence, with solemn expressions.
   Missing the parental  attachment might have been crushing to them, but not as devastating as saying good-bye.