At least I have the window bed.
Gemma couldn't sleep. From another room, she could hear an old man cursing the staff. He wanted to get up and use the washroom, but the Chemo had addled his brain so badly, he didn't know where he was, and he thought, they were his children, being mean. It had been going on all night.
What a way to spend my birthday! I should be out celebrating with Bella. Thirty is a milestone...I wonder if she will visit me today?
Morning came, and with it breakfast. Gemma dreaded anything concerning food. Her mouth and throat were so sore, it was a constant struggle to eat. Every morsel gagged her. It seemed, she had contracted Thrush, a mouth infection some patients developed while receiving Chemo.
In the bed across from her was Adrian; sixty-three, over six foot five, emaciated, bald; a diabetic with stage four Cancer. They were giving him his poison in a continuous stream for seventy-two hours.
Because of this, he ate continuously, to keep his blood sugar up. His favorite phrase was: 'what you got on your tray?' He liked to trade, but Gemma simply gave him what she couldn't stomach.
The hardest part was when his girl friend came to visit. She showed up leaden down with all manner of fresh fruits, and goodies, generously offering, the lady in the bed across, a sampling. Oh, how Gemma longed to eat; she even dreamed of food when she did doze off, but she always refused their savory treats, because she knew, she couldn't chew or swallow.
Trouble was, this couple were like the devil having an argument with God. Adrian was constantly complaining, criticizing the lot he'd been given, those who were trying to help him, and everyone in general. No one did anything right.
His poor friend did her best to cheer him, but he was so bitter; could see nothing good in his future, and in his words, 'What good is all this? Just to buy a few years. What quality of life will I have, in and out of hospital all the time?'
What really got to Gemma was his attitude toward religion. He mocked any support system, volunteer or funded. He said, he refused to celebrate Christmas or Easter; it was just a grab for money. "If there was a creator, the least he could do is come down here, and show us that he cared."
Gemma looked around her. Everywhere, nurses scurried, tending to patients' every whim. Orderlies washed the floors, emptied wastebaskets. The CCAs emptied the pee pots, changed their beds every day, even gave each patient a bath and clean gown every morning.
If God isn't down here, in the persons of these people, ministering to us, showing His love, how are they able to continue doing it day after day?
But Adrian felt he was a logical man; he would rather believe we evolved from monkeys, than admit to something Omnipotent and benevolent. After all, he had been a teacher all his life, and he'd never yet seen evidence of a creator.
All his life, maybe, the cancer has affected his eyes?
In the bed beside this atheistic man, was the fourth patient residing in the room. Benny was terminal; a tumor invading his brain. His memory came and went, and he had to be retold simple facts that had previously been discussed.
In a room such as this, every word said by patients, or visitors alike, was public knowledge; impossible to miss. Privacy was nil. Gemma listened, as his daughter, and her female partner, loudly discussed his coming to live with them for the few days of life he had left. The delay, they told him, over and over, was his son, who had power of attorney, and refused to release the funds. He didn't trust his sister. Benny had been waiting in hospital for thirty days.
Between what she heard from Benny and his family, and Adrian and his girl friend, Gemma found it extremely difficult to remain positive. It had shocked her at first, just to realize, the ward was co-ed, let alone to be thrown into the lives of other people like this. Gemma had always been a private person, only interacting when she chose. To be forced to face not only this new actuality, but the truth of her own diagnoses at the same time, simply rocked her world; sent her spinning into depression. All she wanted was to get out of there.
No amount of exercise, or good eating could change the death sentence she had been handed. Suddenly, she had no control over anything, especially, her own physical health. It terrified the young woman, as she realized, even if this Cancer were eradicated, it could return again at any time.
And the deep emersion bath into this multinational oncology floor, with its doctors, nurses, and other attendants, coming from every race and creed conceivable, severed Gemma's touch with her own comfortable reality.
****
Five days had past. Even though in the communal ward, Gemma was lonely. She felt envious, as she watched the constant stream of visitors to her patient companions. They brought gifts, reading material, foods of all kinds: take out; milk shakes; fruit; chocolates. They stayed and sat with their friend, or family member, even while that person dozed away the day. A constant hum of visitation passed back and forth between the beds. Everyone knew the history of the other, sympathized and encouraged...except, where she was concerned.
Gemma never received a card, text or phone call, and nor any visitors; no one worried over her welfare.
Finally, desperate for some attention, Gemma sent her sister, Bella, a text:
'I feel so alone; abandoned. Are you out there? Do you even care?'
The cell phone remained silent. There was no answering text; no word of encouragement,
