Want to Go Home

I want to go home. Yesterday was a good day, and my spirits were high, but it was exhausting.  After dinner when my husband had to leave I felt suddenly bereft. I put on a brave face but he could see through it; he was halfway out the door when he came back in to kiss me again.


Nighttime in hospital is different; after the last test is over (blood pressure, 12:15 am) and you can finally go to sleep, you start to think about why you actually have to be there; how it came to be that you’re alone in a hospital at night; why your life led to this place, this moment, this situation…  Or at least that was where I cleverly allowed my mind to meander in the dead of night.  I don’t recommend it – it’s not a train of thought likely to encourage sleep.  Anxiety, yes. Sleep, not a chance.  (For sleep, I recommend a combination of breathing mediation and healthy dose of Ativan.  That worked nicely.) And if you do manage to sleep, you’ll notice that 6 am is universal hospital Disturbing the Peace Hour — doors are opened, voices are upped to full volume and anything that makes loud crashing noises or has squeaking wheels is enthusiastically pushed up and down the hallways.  No rest for the …ill?


I do not admit defeat — I’m not even close to defeat.  In fact, I strike that word from my vocabulary.  But I do confess that I’m tired and depressed and I miss my home, my bed, my little girl, and most of all my old life.  The one with no cancer in it.


My mother is here with tea.  Thank god for mothers and cups of tea.



Filed under Living with Breast Cancer

4 responses to “Want to Go Home

  1. Susan Seads

    I am a Mom of a 25 year old daughter, Caroline, who is battling breast cancer. She has a 3 year old son, Dawson and a 5 month old son, Ryder. Caroline was diagnosed the day Ryder was born, how bittersweet that day. She has been through gruelling chemo and a double mastectomy performed July 3rd. She will begin 25 radiation treatments in August. Just as your Mom has, I brought tea to her in the hospital. What I want to bring to her is complete recovery and her old life back. You and her are very similar in ways, both stubborn, strong, brave and are fighting with everything you have to win this battle. I will share my strength with you and your Mom. We are all in this together.

  2. geminigirl


    Hospitals are so ironic. We go there ’cause we need the extra care in order to heal and we all know sleep and rest are part of the healing process, but, like you, I’ve never been able to get to sleep in that environment. You’d think they’d consider sound proofing hospitals!

    “…But I do confess that I’m tired and depressed and I miss my home, my bed, my little girl, and most of all my old life. The one with no cancer in it…” I hear you. I remember the missing, the tiredness and the sadness. Thank heavens for your Mum and tea.

    Love and hugs,


  3. lcoppen

    SUSAN: I can’t imagine receiving a cancer diagnosis on the day I gave birth to my child. What are these incredible tests we are put through?? What are these ironies and horrors? I’m at a complete loss…I can’t contemplate any rhyme or reason. There simply is no explanation. But my thoughts are with your daughter Caroline as she heads into her radiation. It’s a long and cruel road but I’m hopeful that she will soon see the end of it and be able to return to her “old life”, just as you say. My mom and I were together when i read your comment: “Just as your Mom has, I brought tea to her in the hospital. What I want to bring to her is complete recovery and her old life back.” This had us both in tears (there’s been a lot of that lately) and I recognized that that’s exactly what my mom wants to be bringing me too. This stupid cancer does nothing but break your heart — if you let it. The trick is not to let it. Just continually try to restore strength in yourself and your daughter, one cup of tea at a time.

  4. lcoppen

    GEMINI: I know – I had the same thought about the healing rest/sleep-depravation irony!! I find nights are the worst anyway, but nights in hospital? Ugh. I had psychological tennis elbow after swatting at my fears and demons all night. When I saw my mom I was overcome with relief. Yes: thank heavens for mothers… and all I want is to know I’ll be around to be there when my little girl needs hers.

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