There used to be a little grove of trees by the physician's parking lot at Dominican Hospital where my father would leave my little brother and me while he would see his patients. The idea of leaving elementary school aged children alone in a landscaped parking lot seems ill-advised now, but I remember feeling safe. Dad would go over the passcode procedure, if he needed to send someone to pick us up or, and I won't repeat the code in public to this day.

He would sling his stethoscope around his shoulders and stroll into the hospital, and my brother and I would dash into the grove of young redwood trees. The whole area was surrounded by thick feathery bushes that obscured a view of the adjacent street. We would dig our way through it and peer at the approaching ambulances and service vehicles. The grove itself was heavily shaded and the dirt was soft and bouncy. My brother would leap over the plastic sprinkler heads that were scattered to water the shrubs. We were completely oblivious to the kind of work my father was doing inside the hospital. As far as we were concerned he could have been a banker or a lawyer, we were just waiting out the time while he was gone.

I can't remember the games we played, but I can say that they involved a lot of running. We must have had some inclination I no longer have when I see a nice, well-shaded area. We grew up in the dense Santa Cruz Mountains forests, where the ability to sprint was hampered by long fallen branches and dense bunches of poison oak and prickly bushes. This kind of space was a relief from that.

The hospital itself was a series of tall white concrete buildings with sharp, modern angles and large glass windows covered by heavy steel shutters. All of the doors slid open with a gust of air conditioned breeze. When we would follow my father in, I would expect everyone to know who he was, and to some extent I'm pretty sure all the staff did. If we were lucky our waiting spot would be in the cafeteria or the doctor's lounge. There would be newspapers and magazines, and if there was a scrap of free food we were on it. Anyone who knows me knows I love food for all occasions. Dad would often return to the car with a bagel, lox and tomato slice wrapped in a paper napkin or maybe a bran muffin. If we had been waiting around after school, which was most often the case we would find a vending machine to stare at.

You see some pretty disturbing things if you sit in a hospital hallway for too long. Fully grown adults bursting into tears and moans, hospitalized patients collapsing in seizures, and those really eery gift shops I was afraid to step into, even though I wanted to look at their stock. Maybe these are the sorts of memories that discouraged us from wanting to becomes doctors when we were young. We rarely saw my dad providing care, but we often saw highly unstable adults doing things usually reserved for children- like crying.

I wonder what will come of these memories. I don't think there's anything advantageous about recollecting the plots we concocted involving those doors that open with button push and the floors that were perfect for sliding. But what about my kids someday? Will they come to the hospital with me?