It is noisy in this room, but you have found peace in sleep. The bustling Bulgarian family on the other side of the curtain; the shuffling and snoring of the other men in the room; the busy swish of the nurses as the check vital signs and answer pleas for relief all over the unit. Quiet is hard to find. You escape to your dreams, which are just as noisy and vivid as this room, but you have found peace, for a moment at least.
Your body was cleaved, and the unwelcome invader was evicted, squatters’ rights revoked. The tubes issue fluids which are meant to keep your battered body in comfort, and help to return it to good health. I am sitting next to you, fanning your hot face, and warming your cold feet and hands, waiting for you to need a sip of water, a cool cloth, or a fresh sheet.
There is a helplessness that floats in the air in the curtained privacy of your bed. I can do nothing to heal you, you can do little to push back against the pain. You will never realize how many people have offered you and I help and comfort, but in this moment, in this room, you don’t want anyone to see you like this, and we have created a microcosm of our world. It’s crazy that the world is going on outside while we sit in semi-darkness, listening to your hiccuping neighbour and the gentle rattling of your IV machine.
The thing that makes me feel better about this little, noisy, dim room is the idea that the cancer will be left here, in the hospital, and in a few days, we will go home, and find ourselves once again in our own quiet room.
Kali J Desautels 
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