Suddenly, I was transported back to the lonely, cold hospital room where I had received the bone-marrow transplant. Most of my friends were unable to deal with watching me shrivel up and possibly die. Fortunately, I had a dedicated girlfriend and my mother as regular visitors. In fact, my girlfriend was allowed to sleep over as long as she underwent a rigorous disinfecting process. She also had to sport an entire surgical outfit with sanitary slippers, hat, and facemask. My father, on the other hand, was unable to accept my condition and chose instead to retreat into the safety of denial. Unfortunately for me, and the two women in my life, this meant that I had only two regular visitors. They both tried to make up for the others' weaknesses by dedicating an enormous amount of their time to visiting with me.
I will never forget the moment my mother brought me the stuffed monkey. I remember the smell of the disinfectant and the way the sun's rays swept past my window reflecting off the stainless steel bedrails as a dark reminder of the world outside moving along without me. The television was off and I was concentrating on the sound of the birds singing outside my window over the continuous beeping and pumping of the many machines needed to keep me alive. The contrast between machinery and nature was so great that I longed for some semblance of the natural world. My girlfriend's mother had sent me many crystals, which I surrounded myself with, and my aunt had sent me a tropical fish mobile from Hawaii. I valued these treasures greatly and lacked the words to fully express their significance and meaning. Each gift represented thoughtful devotion, love and the natural world, which was everything that my inert machine bound existence denied me. Yet I had nothing of equal meaning from my immediate family.
While lying in my hospital bed, I could hear the steady pattern of my mother's footsteps approaching my door. I felt relief to have a break in the monotony, but was not particularly excited because an emotional barrier remained between my mother and me. I was aware she was giving up much of her life to be with me each night, and I could tell by her graying hair and haggard face that she was under a great deal of stress over my condition, yet I longed for a relationship built on a deeper connection. I needed her to express verbally what I could see in her face, that she loved me and wanted me to live. On that day, when she came around the corner, holding something in her hand, my somber mood quickly lifted.