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Show 18 But now the treatment seems to be killing me. I am depressed. I have been in this hospital bed for weeks now and though many people come to see me, no one brings sunshine into the room. A psychiatrist stops at the foot of my bed periodically, asks a few questions, scribbles a few notes on her clipboard, and moves on down the hallway into another room. Nurses cluck their tongues when I turn my face from their feeding me. The hospital nutritionist stops by to assure me that the food is so good here that they cater it out. It isn't that I don't believe her. The social workers at least try empathy. But I am too exhausted to shift any of my emotions into any sort of gear. Only when my family comes do I strain to gather myself and at least try to cheer them up. They come looking so sad at my long absence. I am sad with them. It's the steroids. It's written right there on the insert hugging the medication in its box, explaining why I am feeling this way. It details all sorts of other things that could be happening to me that, thankfully, are not. Why doesn't anyone simply confirm this for me, to me? It would feel so much better to not feel guilty as well as depressed. I have just eaten, or at least, it seems to me that they have just tried to feed me again, my own body totally incapable of movement. I see the old tray still, over there, balanced on two sides of the sink. A big chunk of now cold lasagna. But I smell new food coming up the hallway on the |