My father was born at home; he's never been hospitalized in his life. The fear of hip replacement surgery has only recently been trumped by his near inability to move. Back in my parent's town the owner of the Bagel Shop asked my sister why Herb doesn't stop in for coffee any more. She had grandfathered his rate at 50 cents. The answer is that he can't park close enough and he's discovered that if he sits in front of the Daybreak Caf/, someone may bring out a cup of coffee, or else he can slowly make his way inside. My mother has offered to make him coffee at home, but that was never the point. For many people, it's not the caffeine that's needed - it's the interaction, the daily ritual.

Since returning from a visit, I've been thinking about my dad's upcoming surgery while wandering Ballard. The neighborhood offers too many story ideas this week. I've watched the Ballard Branch library become visible from Northwest 24th Street, as the QFC has been trucked away. I've made it to the end of the January Ballard District Council meeting and listened to presentations on the former Denny's site and the proposed changes in multifamily zones. But I seem to be returning over and over again to the cafeteria at Ballard Swedish; I'm not even sure why.

Being in a hospital cafeteria makes me think of a desensitization exercise; forcing myself to become comfortable in a place that I associate with fear and loss. Despite the fact that all of my past experiences at Ballard Swedish have been good, I'm wary. Someone next to me could be forcing themselves to eat before they go back to listen to their partner struggle for oxygen.

My daughter was born upstairs in the Family Childbirth Center. On that day my husband presented me with a new flannel bathrobe and insisted that I leave the floor long enough to accompany him to the cafeteria. It was as though he was afraid that if I didn't learn on the first day that I could leave the baby, that I might never be able to learn to let her go. In flip-flops and a new robe with blue stripes I even stepped outside with him to the terrace, before begging to go back upstairs.

It's easy to tell the employees from the outsiders, even aside from the employee badges. There are local seniors who meet regularly for affordable meals and coffee; the other visitors are more tentative. The line cook and the cashier are so unfailingly friendly that it almost makes me cry; perhaps they know to treat every customer as in need of kind words. Meanwhile by the cafeteria entrance, Dean Askew runs the Swedish Express espresso stand, as he has for nearly fourteen years, greeting every employee by name. Each day he posts a trivia question and the drink special of the day. He makes great coffee drinks, but that's not necessarily the point.

My father has never been hospitalized before and hates to relinquish any control. He's naturally afraid of surgery, and perhaps I am afraid for him. How else to explain hanging around a hospital cafeteria no matter how delicious the caramel latte (Wednesday special) or a $3.55 omelet? Dean sat down to glance at the paper during a momentary lull. Suddenly we were discussing bone marrow transplants - it turns out he was a cook preparing aseptic food for bone marrow transplant patients housed at Swedish-First Hill. We reminisced about watching the Blue Angels from an upper floor, and the view of Mount Rainier at sunrise. My late husband spent a lot of time on the 9th floor at downtown Swedish. Dean mentioned casually that his mother died at Swedish; the family was with her when she died. Dean was holding her hand.

Dean makes at least 75 coffee drinks a day, while he "makes the day" for a myriad of other with his personal greetings and memory for details. He personifies cheerfulness with his sharp wit and nonstop movement. Trust me to dredge up a shared past involving chemotherapy and single donor platelet transfusions. Then he returned to dispense more drink cards, give a hint regarding the trivia, remake drinks that didn't satisfy his standards, before announcing, "I need a smoke, do you want to come with me?"

He got his jacket and I did something I haven't done in 10 years - stand with someone as they smoke a cigarette. While tamping an espresso shot he'd told me he sometimes gets worn out from his job, "believe it or not." Believe it? His job looks exhausting. In addition to being on his feet all day, in constant motion, he seems to be boosting the spirits of everyone who orders a drink. Thinking of my own father, moving slowly, deathly afraid of the procedure, I can see where Dean's load could be heavy indeed.

"What happens when you go on vacation?" I asked him.

"Me being away period doesn't go over real well," he said.

The espresso cart closes at 2:30 p.m. In the morning light the round tables in the hospital cafeteria are cheerful, but I wouldn't want to be there after the espresso cart is shuttered and all that is scary is no longer kept at bay by Dean. A friendly exchange, a hot cup with the right combination of caffeine and chocolate - for a few minutes everyone can forget their fears. We can remember that babies are born upstairs, patients are treated and released, support groups meet and expectant parents learn how to change diapers and perform infant CPR.

Every person at every table has a story that in turn links to the story of their lives beyond the cafeteria. And everyone sitting around me, whether a patient, a visitor, a janitor, a radiologist, a nurse, Dean, everyone is brave. Just as my father will be brave as he walks himself slowly into the hospital to check in for surgery on Tuesday.

Peggy can be reached atlargeinballard@yahoo.com. She writes additional pieces at http://blog.seattlepi.nwsource.com/ballard.