Going Home

Another week has already flown by since I entered the hospital. And today, I get to go home.

As has been the case every single time so far, this fills me not only with joy, but also with anxiety.

The white world of the hospital offers routine, quiet, and protection. Whatever goes wrong—breathlessness or a sweat-soaked bed—with the push of a button, the cavalry comes rushing in. Should I suddenly take a turn for the worse, I don't have to call an ambulance; I am already in the hospital.

Here, I have absolutely no distractions. It takes zero effort to pass the day reading, writing, and sleeping. Walking a short lap every now and then, having a meal served three times a day. Connecting and disconnecting a few IVs, taking some measurements, swallowing some pills—that’s pretty much it.

And then, soon, I’ll be home. The ideas and chores are already lurking in the shadows. I’ll have a social life again, will have to think about what and where to eat. How do I restrain myself? How do I keep this dormant existence going for just a little longer?

Because that is exactly what is needed for my recovery. I can feel it. My body is nowhere near done with it yet. I have to send myself to bed.

Me, acting as my own strict nurse.