Lying awake in the wee hours of a long night during my most recent hospital adventure, my mind stopped racing and settled on the question of what to write for this space. In past Consumer Guides, I’ve written about a few select products that have impacted my life and independence, but after four years, that well had run dry. My mind started to race again. Because of the positioning of my bed, it was nearly impossible to avoid watching the secondhand tick slowly forward on the room’s wall clock.

I closed my eyes. I envisioned the sinister hospital architect cackling in delight for ensuring the clock was perfectly positioned to catch just enough light off the nurse’s station so you could see its three hands even when the lights were off. The steady drip of the IV drew me back to my alert state. I’d hoped my daydream had at least brought me closer to morning, but the minute hand had not budged.

Too tired to be frustrated, and too frustrated to be tired, I let my head sink into the pillow. And that’s when I found what I had been searching for. It had been right there, hanging above me all this time: the pockmarked and speckled ceiling drop tile that has somehow ended up in almost every hospital for decades.

Everyone who has ever been in a hospital knows what I’m talking about, but those of you who have spent extended times on your back as patients have a deeper appreciation. Whether you counted the dots in the panels and the number of rows or lost yourself in their designs, if you’ve been bored in a hospital bed, you know the world of ceiling tiles.

For two drug-riddled months after my injury, while hospital staff shuttled me in my bed between appointments, the ceiling tiles’ inscrutable patterns served as my only compass to my new surroundings. I loved watching the tiles and signs and fixtures pass overhead, each offering a new coordinate to the growing map in my head. I had no idea what each room looked like or what decorated the walls or floors of the larger hospital, but after weeks of rolling between various destinations, I could navigate my way through the maze.

Even stuck in my own room, the tiles provided free — and much needed — entertainment. Unable to turn or elevate my head, I studied the markings for countless hours, making the ceiling my own Magic Etch A Sketch. I connected the dots and scratches in my mind to create images and scenes: a number, a letter, a smiling face, a dragon … whatever.

I’ve found solace in the ceiling tiles during numerous hospital stays since my injury, and I’ve even found myself a little sad when I end up in a room or a building with newer, or nicer, tiles. What am I supposed to do now when I am awake all night?

I understand the desire to move to something more appealing and less asbestos-y, but I will hold a place in my heart for the old tiles. Like a familiar face, they always welcome me back. In one of the most monotonous and mind-numbing environments in the world, the tiles provide an outlet for creativity that has made many difficult times slightly more bearable, and for that I am grateful.