March 1, 2013
It is 4 weeks that I have been living in this hospital.
My life is pretty much shaped with my hospital room, the imaging departments, the patient library, and occasional visits to the gift store.
There are times that I feel like I am losing my mind; how did this this active, hard working person turn into a hospital rose?
“Hospital rose” is the nick name one of the house-keeping staff gave me. Now that I was a regular and apparently thriving in the environment, despite the tests and the hospital stay, he said I was the “rose” in this cold, depressing, and ironically healing place.
There was a song called “Desert Rose”?
Many people including me are perplexed with how well I am doing in my daily activities and with my interactions with the hospital staff. I just lost some weight. I blame the lame hospital meals. Under different conditions I would be excited to have lost weight, but knowing that my body needs energy to heal, I am eating as much as I can.
I have a choice to eat from the gift shop yet the selection is limited and not necessarily the food I long for. I wish I could walk 10 min away, go to that little Jamaican place, buy three beef patties, and start eating them right away. They have always been one of my favourites; the warm pastry filled with beef and hot spices. One of my nurses somehow mentioned that she could get some outside food for me should I wish. Should I wish? I do wish! Maybe I will ask her tomorrow. I am just scared that once I get outside food, I may just realize how bad the food here is and refuse to eat it all together.
Dreams are endless here – I love thinking about things I would do when I finally leave the hospital. Beef patties, the visits to the bookstores, the long walks around the city, a mini-vacation somewhere, shopping for new clothes, having a hair cut, and cooking myself. Thinking about all of these cheers me up. Mind is interesting; dreams are healing.
My family does not suspect anything. I call them at the weekends. I did not mention about my ordeal, though they are worried about my voice; it is still hoarse. I keep telling I am seeing a doctor and she is taking care of me; it should be a bad infection and will hopefully clear soon.
I hate myself for doing this to my family. But what are my other choices really? Tell them I have got cancer for the second time? I have had a recent surgery and am in the hospital? I am lonely and scared? I think sometimes I am losing my sanity? How is any of these good news?
I do not know how long I can hide the truth, how long I can protect them from harm; but I will try as long as I can. How will they feel when they learn? I have no idea. Will they feel I denied them the right to care for me, support me, be with me? Will they be saddened beyond my imagination? Will they feel deeply sorry for me, which will sink their hearts, or will they hate me for being so cold-hearted, which I will deserve?
There is no escape from pain.
The life in the diary – XIV
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