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is. And she knows that. But having her in arm’s reach is as comforting as it’s difficult. When I’m alone, the illness is like a problem I just have to go through. With my mother sitting next to me, it’s not just my problem anymore. And that makes it too big a problem to handle. I don’t have room for my family’s emotions, only for my own. Seeing them stiffen in fear or break down in sorrow is more than I can deal with. My family knows. They are in constant careful anticipation of my emotional and physical state of being. Also, the continuous fatigue can turn me into a real sour prune. Whenever anyone comes near me on a bad day, they hold their breath for fear of irritating the princess on the pea.
    *   *   *
    Dr. L stops by. As usual his esteemed interns accompany him so they can discuss their latest medical discoveries during lunch; cancer-talk while they chow down their cheeseburgers. Dr. K appears only in my dreams, and every so often in the corridors of the hospital when I’m on my way to visit Dr. L. It’s not fair, really, that of all the doctors in all the different specialties in this hospital, the one I ended up with has the worst bedside manner.
    â€œThere you are. It’s always a bit of a hunt to find you. Is this your latest addition?”
    Hmmm. What’s that? A joke? I swapped wigs about an hour ago. I nod proudly. “Her name is Blondie.”
    Sue and Daisy are hanging over the IV pole, which I have taken to using as a clothes hanger. It also sports a dressing gown and my purse. The interns giggle in chorus. Even Dr. L gives me a brief smirk. Something’s changing about him. He makes jokes now. And he looks at me differently. In a kind and caring way.
    Although the basis for our interaction is purely medical, our relationship feels extremely personal. At least to me. The hours I share with Dr. L are the most intimate moments of my life given they are the most painful. He is with me when all my defenses are down. He knows the fear I feel when he looks concerned and the joy I experience when he gives me good news. I can’t fight this fight without him. And I don’t want to, anymore.
    Now that I’ve seen his kindness, I wonder what he puts on his sandwiches. And what sort of house he wakes up in. And how he gets from that house to the hospital. So far I’ve found out that he lives in a village whose name starts with an O and that he takes the train there and back. I find that strange. This man is so immensely important to me that I expected him to travel in a chauffeured car with tinted windows and a butler. Not to have a chaotic morning ritual like us mortals of making the kids’ sandwiches, gathering papers, and rushing late out the door, off to the hospital to save lives.
    I spend all morning lying in bed while the busy stream of traffic continues around me. It’s only the first day, but I’m fed up already. I’m smelly, dizzy, and feeling bitter thinking about the plans I have or had. I wonder if it’s easier to know if it’s the present tense or the past than not knowing at all.

 
    THURSDAY, APRIL 7
    A LL THE PERFUMES AND LOTIONS in the world can’t counteract the inescapable BO caused by chemo. Even my pee stinks. “Chemo pee,” Pauke calls it. I’m reminded of the smell all day long, seeing as how I have to use a bedpan instead of a proper adult toilet. At first I tried to get rid of the stink with all of the contents of my toiletry bag, but I’ve since learned that I don’t stand a chance against it.
    Pauke, who wears Birkenstocks as if they were designed for her, has just stopped by to weigh me and take my temperature and blood pressure. She’s not like the other nurses; she’s not like some of the others a deejay, a part-time salesperson, or a hip young thing. She’s an old-fashioned nurse who likes to get things done. She’s so tall that as she works