So this is it, isn’t it? The humming of the machines have stopped and I know I will have to crawl out of this hospital bed soon. No matter how long I lay here (hours, days) it still feels as cold as ice. The room smells too clean and the people who walk in to greet me all wear their face smiles, as though the sickness has made me gullible. The nurse tells me as she removes the IV from my already scared arm to “press gently” on the piece of cotton she puts there to stop even more of my blood from leaking out of me. This tiny hospital room, which I hate so much, has become a comfort to me and to leave it yet again is a travesty. I will have to face the big, bad, real world for another few weeks before the doctors tell me that the chemotherapy hasn’t done all of its work yet and it is time for another round. If only I could explain how much I dread those words, yet need them all the same. They don’t even let me walk out, these hospital folks. I get pushed out on a wheelchair so that no one in this building can think I am a normal, healthy person here; as though my pale skin and bald head wouldn’t tell them just the same. I am dying, here, and no one wants to tell me. They all think I would rather be hopeful than face what is ahead of me. There is no comfort in this false hope, there is no comfort in this battle. There is no comfort to be found.

 

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