I want to go home. Yesterday was a good day, and my spirits were high, but it was exhausting. After dinner when my husband had to leave I felt suddenly bereft. I put on a brave face but he could see through it; he was halfway out the door when he came back in to kiss me again.
Nighttime in hospital is different; after the last test is over (blood pressure, 12:15 am) and you can finally go to sleep, you start to think about why you actually have to be there; how it came to be that you’re alone in a hospital at night; why your life led to this place, this moment, this situation… Or at least that was where I cleverly allowed my mind to meander in the dead of night. I don’t recommend it – it’s not a train of thought likely to encourage sleep. Anxiety, yes. Sleep, not a chance. (For sleep, I recommend a combination of breathing mediation and healthy dose of Ativan. That worked nicely.) And if you do manage to sleep, you’ll notice that 6 am is universal hospital Disturbing the Peace Hour — doors are opened, voices are upped to full volume and anything that makes loud crashing noises or has squeaking wheels is enthusiastically pushed up and down the hallways. No rest for the …ill?
I do not admit defeat — I’m not even close to defeat. In fact, I strike that word from my vocabulary. But I do confess that I’m tired and depressed and I miss my home, my bed, my little girl, and most of all my old life. The one with no cancer in it.
My mother is here with tea. Thank god for mothers and cups of tea.