Today is day #10 of my most recent hospitalization.  My pulmonologist suggested that he might keep me in over the weekend to make sure my pneumonia gets better.  I told him my birthday is on Monday.  “If I’m not out by Monday, I’m climbing out my window,” I told him, envisioning myself with a rope of knotted bed sheets escaping from my 9th story room in the middle of the night.

Another day or two in the hospital might not seem like anything to an outsider, but to me, every day in this joint is pure torture.   I tried to explain what it feels like to one of my friends:  “How ’bout I lock you in your bedroom and you’re not allowed to leave for ten days?”   Any normal person would go insane, right?

Which is why, when I was admitted for the second time this month, I cried for hours.   It may seem that every subsequent hospitalization should be easier, that every day a cancer patient is sick becomes more ‘normal’, but that’s not how it is.  For me, every day I’ve been sick, every chemo session I’ve endured, every hospitalization I’ve gone through, has been harder and harder because each time I have less of an emotional and physical reserve…and, unfortunately, less and less support.

 During my first hospital stay last year after my mastectomy, I had more visitors than I knew what to do with.  My friends who worked at the hospital came to see me every day.  My window sill, night stand and bedside tray were full of flowers and plants and cards. 

Three weeks ago when I was hospitalized again, I got flower bouquets from a few people and lots of visits from friends.

This time, even friends who work in the hospital where I am haven’t been to see me.  And I haven’t received a single flower. Or balloon.  Or plant.  

So now, in addition to feeling sick and tired and feverish and nauseated…I also feel forgotten.  And there’s no cure for that.