Night creeps cold and lonely into hospital rooms. Soft, neutral colors turn sick in the dim fluorescent light, and bodies in beds turn sick with them. It smells antiseptic. I long for the hot, thick air of my own bedroom. My chair sounds ancient, but without a personality. The old red and white book resting open on my leg, and the sound of breathing from the bed next to me offer a mild comfort; still, I cannot believe that people come here to get well.
I'm tired. People are so unbelievably delicate. It's exhausting to try and keep everything together. But we soldier on, eh?
Ahem. Sorry. Dearest readers, prayers and love would be much appreciated, if you can spare them. I promise to reciprocate.
Oh, friend, what happened?
ReplyDeleteI will definitely say some prayers for you.
Sorry I'm always so vague . . . The doctors removed a cantaloupe-sized cyst from my mum's ovary yesterday (we're not calling it a tumor), and while the surgeon was optimistic that it wasn't cancer, the pathologist who examined it was really suspicious. So they're doing tests, and we're all just holding our breath waiting for the results.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the prayers. Hope you're well.