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.