I dubbed this moment my “incanceration.”
Over the course of the next six weeks, I would have a lot of time to reflect on the hospital experience. Cancer has a way of issuing patients a sudden ticket to the world of otherness. As the chemotherapy took effect, and I Iost my hair, I looked different, I felt different and I even sounded different, as I dragged the beeping monitor with me everywhere I went. For a while I referred to it as “my little friend,” because he never left my side.
I couldn’t help but feel a bit like an inmate shackled to the schedule of the outside world. I remember guiltily feeling envious, and eventually somewhat resentful, of my visitors when they left my room. “I’m taking a break, and I’ll be back soon,” a friend would say. I could understand this, but it also made me angry. I, too, desperately needed a break.
The escape fantasies began soon after. When I lost enough weight that I could slip off my electronic hospital bracelet, Central Park taunted me from my window. I plotted my escape and dreamed about stepping outside and standing in the rain — even if just for a minute. Fresh air is an amusement ride in the imagination of someone who has been in the hospital for an extended stay.
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