This week continued....

To those questions asked by a reader, here is my detailed description:

I remember that Isabelle's voice was very proper. She had a loud, almost British tone to her words. She was a determined and funny in her demeanor. She spoke for some time to my parents asking about my health, I remember her speaking to me as if I was her grandchild, with care and concern. She laid in the bed closest to the window and I in the other bed close to the hallway door. We had curtain that we never really used between us, only at times when we were sleeping. I recall starting to regain my appetite at the end of my stay and still not being able to eat. Isabelle would order meals that smelled just like Thanksgiving dinner...well at the time, and I was frustrated only having jello or water ice to choose from on my menu.

This stay was my first memory of being overnight in a hospital bed. It was lonely at night. Except for the noises of all of the monitors and patients yelling "Nurse...Nurse, every so often." My parents knew the rule was that they could not stay. Of course that did not stop them. They slept in the chair the first couple nights and then the visitors suite...Everyone was hoping that my white blood cell count would start to go down, it was at around 36,000 when I entered. During the day, it was very busy...I was seen by my surgeon who could not determined what I was fighting. I was sent down to other floors for diagnostic tests. There were a few doctors that came to examine my case, including an infectious disease doctor. I remember that my abdomen was distended. I looked about nine months pregnant, and I could barely walk. I recall walking like an ninety year old, up and down the oncology floor for the first time a week after I was admitted. My dad actually saw a man who was a patient on the floor with the same exact name of him, and he introduced himself, he was suffering from lung cancer.

I had a few family members and a close friend who came to see me. I do remember being too sick to really acknowledge how grateful I was for their visit. I remember hearing my parents voices with them and the pain that my parents were feeling. They had no control.

At the time, we did not know what was wrong and what I was fighting. However, after I was released we were informed that this was peritonitis. It happens usually after a gunshot wound or a ruptured appendix, although I contracted this infection as a result of my surgery. I heard on the radio the other day that one of the main causes of deaths from hospitals is postoperative infections. Most of my family and friends did not see me in Memorial so they did not know how terrible the pain and the infection was in my body. However, when I arrived home they sent gifts and made visits to see how I was recovering.

I felt lucky to have so many people in my life that loved me and cared for me so much, I felt so loved. I also felt so alone, the pain was so raw from having just gone through that trauma. As time went by the memories of the pain of my stay started to fade. What I do remember is not the pain...its that there were so many people who cared. Starting with my parents, who did not leave my bedside for almost two weeks. My roommate, Isabelle, who helped bring a piece of my heart back. The nurses who my parents and I became close with as a result of my extended stay. My brother who came home from college to be by my side....The friends and family who called, sent cards and made visits when I returned home. And my future husband who changed his mind and cancelled a date...to wait for me.