The visitors come and go, perhaps talking of Michelangelo, I wouldn't know. I drift in and out of consciousness as the chemo seeks and destroys the bad guys, taking out good guys, too. I can't be much of a host, so my guests amuse themselves while I lie in bed uncharacteristically mute. The day passes, as does the headache, thanks to Percoset.
Karen and Rob have driven down from Boston, bringing me coffee beans from their finca in Costa Rica. They chat with my brother George who's flown in from Atlanta. My husband and son Harry also come and stay for a while.
At this point, the haze has worn off and I manage to keep my head upright for a time. My son Mark arrives and spends about three hours with me, which is nice because we don't usually have a chance to just hang out and chat about nothing and everything. I'm honored he's chosen to spend his Friday night with me instead of with his friends. I feel like I've gotten something right.
The night is punctuated by headaches and beeping infusion pumps, an ocassional ambulance siren piercing through the hospital hum. I dream that I sneak out of the my room and manage to drive myself home. But I've forgotten my clothes and I feel guilty about letting down my doctor. My bold escape feels childish, and I realize it's no escape at all. Leukemia sounds an all-points bulletin, and I am swiftly rounded up and returned to my cell.
Then Day 4 begins.