Last week I turned the corner, finally: my WBC inched below 11, meaning my infection was under control for the first time in months, wheezing nearly vanished, and shortness of breath decreased--all good things. I embraced this positive news with a practiced sense of caution, and sure enough hours later was served up another challenge: I had to change rooms... to a semi-private.

No one likes a semi-private, but I'm not fully opposed, since I've endured it several times before and I'm no princess (officially). But something about this move set off a mental quake; when your health deteriorates before you, when your body crumbles and chisels away at the life you once knew, you cling to the familiar (whatever that might be). This might be a stretch, but it reminds me of 'normalcy' in disaster zones that is maintained by keeping to routine, be it going to church, attending school, or playing a game of chess (as I assume chess is the post disaster game of choice). My 'normal' was creating my own space in an otherwise very abnormal home and the second my security blanket was ripped away, I felt far more vulnerable than I have in a long time. My illusion of control was suddenly very clear; I haven't really had that much control. 

I watched my room get packed up around me, since I have no energy to do such things on my own anymore, and felt an increasingly heavy feeling in my chest--it's quite disturbing that the simplest thing could overwhelm me. But ask a person with 21% lung function to quickly pack up 6-weeks worth of stuff and move to a MUCH smaller room, and you have one stressful situation (apparently).

For the remainder of the week I didn't sleep well during the night, I ended up requesting Gravol IV to help relax me, and during the day I did nothing but lay in bed--not really wanting to do much else. My spirit felt broken for the second time that week and I felt the walls closing in on me. To make matters worse, famed J-the-Loon (a pastor here, whom I have lovingly nicknamed) stopped by twice last week (luckily, I was able to evade her both times). Why do I wish to avoid this woman of the cloth? Well, let's just say her conversations with me in the past (which I entertained purely out of an effort to be polite) ended up being borderline offensive.
Loon: "Do you think if you ate better you could avoid the hospital...?"
Me: "You're right, if I eat a head of Broccoli daily I will be cured of the wretched disease. Good call."

Needless to say, by the end of the week I was quite fed up with this place, especially as I entered week 7 of my admission with no home date on the horizon. When the doctors came in the room I explained that I needed a break for my mental health and they quickly conjured up a plan to release me for the entire weekend (I only needed to bring home all 19 IV meds). Supposedly, this is not something that is done often, since they generally avoid holding beds, but utter the words "mental instability" and everyone is on their toes and aiming to please. I was out of the doors by 7 pm on Friday.

So here we are, at the end of my weekend at home; I mostly stayed around the house and ventured outside briefly to bathe in some sunlight (almost completely forgetting that one of my medications makes me photosensitive... sizzle) I hadn't slept in my own bed in almost two months, and while the home IV schedule was exhausting, the ever-so-brief non-institutional setting was worth it.

Up next: making home time a permanent situation. Fingers crossed!