There is only one memory that lingers in my head when I think about my five year old self.  A cramped place dominated by a bed. A bedside table and one dining type chair.  A room decorated in colors designed to be restful but come off as akin to a decorator’s choice for a funeral home. Desperately trying to look like someone's bedroom but lacking personality. Cold institutional tile floor. Window that looks out on neighboring roofs, no real view. Private bath that can't conceal its functionality. Handicap railing on toilet, shower and tub. Bed somewhat lumpy with padding and sheets that are trying to mask the thick plastic covering the mattress. Sheets in sterile white with pale blue blanket. Phone attached to the bed with a cord. Call button also attached to the bed. Several different lighting options (fluorescent for the most part), light for the whole room, light for just the entryway, light for just the bed, bedside light. Room never completely dark. Emesis basin, plastic, again in restful colors, with a matching plastic pitcher on the bedside table. Little table attached to the underside of the bed that you can move around the bed, to keep everything handy. IV pole with a digital monitoring system that tends to beep every time you move. Gets clogged easy. Beeps incessantly when a new bag is needed. When you go around the place, it smells faintly of dead germs, like a hotel for mourning souls in the purgatory. It feels obscenely impersonal and public, even a private room, where one listens carefu