November was a blur. I spent the majority of it without any memorable occurrence; I just sat down in my hospital bed, played the occasional video game or watched television, and let my body fight. My counts were way down again, and as I was nearing Thanksgiving, I really wanted to spend it with my family.
I pestered my doctors: Please let me go home. The notion of the family gathering around two large tables side by side, loaded with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, peas, cranberry sauce, rolls, and oh so much more, was one that I desperately needed at a time like this.
I sat in my hospital bed in Room 864 (the new gold standard), watching the IV drip poison into my chest. The machine gears sounded off with grunts and cracks. Unfortunately, that meant it was working as designed.
My legs were getting worse. I couldn’t stand up without that same unbearable pain shooting up and down my legs. I had to get into just the right position to be somewhat comfortable, even while hopped up on morphine.
I needed something to do; I was getting stir crazy and normal television wasn’t cutting it– hell even the PS2 wasn’t cutting it anymore. As much as I loved this new room, 864, there wasn’t anything to do.