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.
Eventually everyone had to get back to his or her job (or in my brother’s case: high school), and the fervor died down. It was back to my Mom and Stepdad for the most part, as it was the majority of the weekdays. At any rate, it was amazing to consistently have family there when able, for their company made the harder days just that much easier.
A few days into my chemo, I had expected my hair to hop off of my head like rats off of a sinking ship, but surprisingly these follicles were holding strong. Every morning I’d take a shower, and every morning there was maybe a few, but nothing more than a normal Monday. Will I even lose my hair? Maybe I have some rare resistance to the popular side effect– a key within my DNA! Perhaps not.