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Show 92 "I just want to get this stupid catheter replaced so I can go home." I am putting my hands over my face because I cannot stop the tears from coming at this humiliation. How could my just wanting to go home have been so badly misinterpreted? How could I have become such a topic of disputation on the other side of the door? I am craving a different place. I am wishing a mountain trail with a waterfall and Douglas fir. I am squeezing shut my hospital eyes, hoping to open them at the streamer-decorated stage of my oldest son's school Spring Sing. I am wrapping my arms around my aching shot-through sides, wishing for the arms of my husband. I am roughly expelling the stale air of this room, yearning to inhale chocolate-chip cookies exhaling their golden doneness in our sun-filled kitchen, my children clamoring for the first batch. I want out ofpeople's gossip. I want no part of people's contention. I just want to go home. I just want to be home. Faith has placed her hand on my arm in silent empathy. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you," she is saying and I am immediately shaking my head. "No." I am emphatic. "It's better that I know what I'm dealing with here," I am saying through my tears. I breech the crest of my sorrow and the crying is subsiding. "No," I am continuing. "I need to know how to do this right. I need to know how I tell these obviously insecure doctors what they need to be doing to help me without insulting them, which |