IF YOU ARE in a hospital, there is coziness to be identified. Hospitals are challenging—and they are also places where you get help. This reminds me of the famous piece of advice Mr. Rogers gave when soothing children during national crises where they might see upsetting pictures in the newspapers. “Look for the helpers,” he urged. Even in horrifying depictions of fires or shootings, there is almost always a first responder in the frame coming to someone’s rescue.
If you find yourself in a hospital, look for the helpers—there are hundreds of them. Police and guards know who is coming through the doors, and why. Intake, the keepers of information. Nurses and PAs, medical technicians, all variety of specialists, janitors, the people who work in the cafeterias and flower shops. Sure, it’s a business, and these people are employed—but don’t let that make you cynical; they have chosen a life of caretaking. Hospitals are teeming with volunteers, therapy dogs, people who read aloud to those who can’t. One can derive strength from what these souls are doing, even by just watching them. Can you listen for an accent you might connect with? Does someone look like they would be able to answer your questions? Most people who work in hospitals have name tags—this is useful. It can make you feel closer and more protected just to know someone’s name. Notice how good people are at their jobs. Observing a nurse cutting a bandage or a doctor listening to a cough is pretty amazing. These are healers. Does it make you feel better knowing there are medical procedures practiced all the time? Millions of routines that have been carefully considered and memorized. Very much like jury duty, one might feel cozy knowing how much effort the people who work at hospitals put into protocol.
You can go even more granular. Twelve years ago during a stay at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, I noticed that the ice cubes dispensed from the machine on my floor were shaped like elongated pencil erasers, and they were softer than your average cube. If I coated them in one or two pushes from the Pepsi machine, the spongy ice would absorb the cola just enough to taste good, while keeping a firm texture that was rewarding to bite into. The paper cups provided were very big and fit into the crook of my elbow and hip. The weight and temperature soothed my tender body. Throughout the day I would plan and look forward to my trips to the soda machine to make the healing concoction. Who would I see at the nurse’s station? What time would the big, round hallway clock say? Would I run into the orderly who winked at me the day before? Was there a new posting on the bulletin board? All of those internal monologues were part of my quest for coziness during that hospital time. I once saw on Twitter there is a hospital cafeteria in Houston that has a cobbler bar. A COBBLER BAR. Come on, someone who understands cozy is working there for sure.
Pepsi ice cubes and peach cobbler do not change the reason you are in the hospital, but they or something like them, like the blanket-warming ovens, might make the experience more breathable—even, in moments, enjoyable.