But Dr. Atkins shakes his head. They all look through me, past me, their eyes glistening, their faces solemn. They talk among themselves, not really listening to me. They lean over my bed, examine my face, and worry.
I feel so sorry for them. I wish they could understand that I’m right.
Mirek tells me Kasia is on her way from New Haven, and she arrives a few hours later, joining us in the hospital room to which I’ve been moved. I am stunned to see her. “Kasia, oh, baby, you shouldn’t have done this! I’m really okay,” I assure her. She begins to cry. She has canceled her Italian vacation with Jake and the boys—something they’d planned for a year—to rush here. I’m happy she’s with us but flabbergasted at her decision and her outpouring of emotion.
“This is a lot of excitement for no reason,” I tell her. “I am fine! I am fine!”
By now it’s almost night, and Kasia climbs onto the bed with me just as she did in January, as tired and upset now as she was then. It feels good to have her so close but I still don’t understand the urgency. I don’t know how to persuade her and Mirek and Dr. Atkins that there’s really no reason to fret so much.
A few hours later, Mirek and Kasia go home, telling me they’ll return in the morning. “Of course!” I say cheerily. “I’ll be fine. I don’t really need anything. Don’t worry and don’t hurry—have a nice bike ride in the morning.” I don’t have a toothbrush with me or even a change of clothes, but I’m feeling upbeat and well. The headache is gone. Hours later, I send them a selfie that shows me smiling in my hospital garb in bed.
The selfie I sent to my husband and daughter from the Georgetown hospital.
But I don’t have a restful night. Nights in hospitals are never good—so much commotion and noise, bright lights and beeping machines. I’m awakened at dawn by a nurse checking my vitals and changing the bags on the IV pole. I’m angry to be roused from sleep, and hungry—so, so hungry.
“When is breakfast?” I ask.
“Soon,” she replies.
“But I’m hungry!” I respond. I’m hungry. I want to eat. It’s my only thought.
At seven o’clock, my breakfast still has not arrived. Nor is it there at eight or nine. I’m fuming. When the nurse reappears, I pounce.
“How is it possible that breakfast hasn’t been served yet?” I scold. “What a terrible hospital this is. My insurance is paying hundreds of dollars a day for me to be here. Appalling! Breakfast itself will probably cost a hundred dollars—and it’s late!”
I repeat my complaint to everyone who comes into my room. Ten o’clock arrives, and still no breakfast. And no Kasia or Mirek either. When they finally telephone, I let them know I’m furious that they’re not here yet with some food. After we hang up, I walk into the nurses’ station, dragging my IV pole, and demand my meal. The nurse explains that because I’m a new patient, it takes longer than usual to order my breakfast. I storm off, stop a doctor in the hallway, and insist he hear my tirade: “No breakfast! How pitiful, how irresponsible. My insurance is paying for it!”
No one can escape me, not the nurses, not other patients. They all need to hear my breakfast story, and I make sure they do.
Finally, at ten thirty a.m., the hospital staff brings my breakfast, just as Mirek and Kasia arrive carrying oatmeal with fruit and nuts, my favorite morning meal. First I devour the hospital food, then the treats from my family. But I remain unhappy. I repeat to Kasia and Mirek the story of the tardy breakfast, and retell it, and tell it again. Every nurse and doctor who comes into the room is greeted with the story of this injustice. They try to ask me about my headache and other medical issues. But I want to tell them that my food was late. And I’m still hungry! Can’t they bring me more?
I see that my daughter is cross. She tells me to stop. “Mom, don’t you understand that you are seriously ill?” she says, her eyes welling up. “You have new tumors in your brain. Why are you stuck on unimportant things like breakfast and food when your life is in danger?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Breakfast, unimportant?” I retort. “Of course it’s important! It’s important for me.”
Kasia leaves the room. I can hear her just outside the door, talking to a doctor who has come to examine me. When she reenters, she’s crying. Her emotional reaction puzzles me.
“Why do you want to talk about tumors and sad things like that?” I tell her. “What’s the point? What can I do about it? You’re overreacting.”
“Mom, you’re very sick,” she responds. “Don’t you get it?”
“You’re panicking. Calm down!” Then I add, “The whole world is against me!”
“I don’t recognize you! You’re not the mother I’ve known all my life!” She continues sobbing.
I stare into the distance silently.
Nobody loves me anymore. I simply can’t believe they don’t agree with me about this breakfast debacle. Breakfast at ten thirty? For what we’re paying?
At the hospital, I continue to polish off everything on my meal trays while asking my family to bring more food from home. I find the hospital crackers especially alluring. I gobble them up and look for more. Everything is delicious.
Midafternoon the next day, Sunday, June 21, they release me from the hospital. I’m going to continue on high doses of oral steroids, and I have an appointment with Dr. Atkins in a few days to hear details about my condition and discuss options. Until then, we’re just waiting. Nobody in the family mentions the possibility of further treatment. Death hovers among us like a ghost.
When we get home, I’m still very hungry, and I insist on making dinner. But I’m baffled as I try
