I need to change my attitude if I’m going to last here until Monday. I’ve realized the last few days have loomed longer than the past several weeks. I have gotten back some of my inner peace, I suppose.
I’m a teary mess lately. Who installed these feelings? Today, I teared up thinking about last Mother’s Day, when my mom visited and accompanied me to an ABVD chemo treatment. We also went to brunch and the botanic garden. That seems so far away after this year’s journey.
When someone today asked if I was a mom, it reminded me that I might never be, and that also brought on the waterworks.
Last night’s episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation also brought on tears. It reminded me of my mom watching reruns and me going off to meet high school friends. Simpler times. What is wrong with me? Nevertheless, I called my mom to tell her I miss her.
So nothing is safe from sentimentality. I sit here now, greased up like an aging, overdramatic starlet in an old film. The hospital air is so dry, I have to put on a healthy dose of Eucerin cream on my face and scalp.
I tried sitting by the window now that the sunshine is back. What’s amazing about New York City, a metropolis of 8 million people, is that you can have a sweeping view of the city and not see a soul. I know First Avenue is bustling, yet I can’t see any actual people, just buildings.
So far, I’ve seen two people—a woman and a child. I’m so thirsty for human goings-on that they scurried out of view before I even had a chance to finish wondering about them. Is he excited for Mother’s Day? Did he make her something or buy her something? Does she know what it is? Will she have to act surprised? Where were they going?
But they were out of sight quickly, leaving me alone to gaze upon my empty-looking metropolis.
Looking to my left, there’s my world—my medication pump, my hospital bed and a window to the hall, where I see doctors and nurses pass, as well as other patients pushing their own pumps, often supported by relatives. We push on.