Vet

Vet, my great-grandfather, an iron monger I barely remember, believed that a hospital was a place you went to die. 

When he was very old, he began to have trouble breathing. His two daughters and ancient wife from Westmeath decided to drive him over to Las Campanas, a private hospital on Compton Boulevard. Margaret, my mother, had worked there as a receptionist, and I had been born there. 

Vet refused to go, but the three women pushed the old fellow into their car. Vet began pleading through the window, asking my mother to save him. 

My young mother had no say in the matter. Vet ended up in the hospital, where he died. She never forgave herself. As Voltaire put it, each of us is guilty of all the good he did not do. 

I recently tried to learn what had happened to Las Companas hospital, which had included a locally famous drug treatment sanitarium. I used the tools available, including a form of artificial intelligence, but ended up with nothing but a photograph of the place taken in 1940 and a sentence saying the property had been turned into a subdivision.