The time I cried in the hospital

     From the ER, they moved me to a room on the oncology floor.  I was informed by… the transport guy?... that this didn't necessarily mean that I had cancer and that other patients got moved there sometimes at first.  Eventually I coerced my parents into leaving the hospital to rest.  I wanted to sleep too, but I realized that it wasn't gonna happen for a couple of reasons: first off, I had to sit upright at all times to breathe.  Secondly, someone different came in every few hours to wake me up for some reason.  That was fine- I hadn't slept for more than a couple hours at a time for the last couple months anyway.  Once I had a twenty minute conversation with a nurse about her son who had a learning disability at 4am after she took my blood.  I hate the 4s, but the people taking care of me were kind.

     After a couple days, my parents' favorite nurse got me the penthouse suite of hospital rooms.  It would only fit one bed, which meant I had no chance of getting a sick roommate, and it had a window.  And a window bench!  It's the little things that get you excited whilst under the daze of IVs and insomnia.  (I also loved the giant cups of pellet ice that nurses would bring me at the push of a button.)  Many amazing friends stopped by and sat on that window seat where I lined up my flowers.  I enjoyed hearing stories of the outside world, but it was hard to see that some of them had been crying or started tearing up when they saw me.  It was ok though- to feel how they felt.  We shouldn't always hold back our tears.

     I cried one time.  I had just gotten myself dressed after taking a shower, and I was leaning on the bathroom sink with both arms, drained of energy, as my mom brushed my long hair.  They had surgically inserted a port into my chest and I couldn't raise my right arm.  I looked at my mom in the mirror and told her I suddenly felt like I was going to cry.  "It's ok to cry- let it out," she responded as she hugged me from behind.  She started to share words of comfort, but I cut her off.  "I'm not scared.  I'm just exhausted."  Silent tears rolled down as I hung my head over the sink.  I was tired, but I was not discouraged.  I would get through it.

(For those of you curious, see the attached diagram of a chest port.  While it was healing it used to make me feel like a cyborg- having something foreign like that under my skin.  Now I've gotten used to it.  I receive my chemo treatment by getting hooked up in the center of those three grey bumps, which can be seen/felt through my skin.)