“Well, there’s a kid who has hardly left the waiting room since you got here,” she said.
“He hasn’t seen me like this, has he?” “No. Family only.” I nodded and sank into an aqueous sleep.
It would take me six days to get home, six un-days of staring at acoustic ceiling tile
and watching television and sleeping and pain and wishing for time to pass.
I did not see Augustus or anyone other than my parents. My hair looked like a bird’s nest; my shuffling gait like a dementia patient’s.
I felt a little better each day, though: Each sleep ended to reveal a person who seemed a bit more like me.
Sleep fights cancer, Regular Dr. Jim said for the thousandth time as he hovered over me one morning surrounded by a coterie of medical students.
“Then I am a cancer-fighting machine,” I told him. “That you are, Hazel. Keep resting, and hopefully we’ll get you home soon.”
On Tuesday, they told me I’d go home on Wednesday. On Wednesday, two minimally supervised medical students removed my chest tube,
which felt like getting stabbed in reverse and generally didn’t go very well, so they decided I’d have to stay until Thursday.
I was beginning to think that I was the subject of some existentialist experiment in permanently delayed gratification
when Dr. Maria showed up on Friday morning, sniffed around me for a minute, and told me I was good to go.
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