sharing my room ; what I minded was television . I craved silence, and I was often blasted by TV all day, and sometimes all night as well—some people never turn it off. Even if I complained and a nurse requested that it be turned off, roommates might keep it on while they (but not I) were sleeping. Most people refuse to use earphones. And in these enlightened days, nurses no longer order patients to do anything.
I am not a television hater on principle. Before my illness—and again now—I watch television on evenings when I eat dinner at home alone, and I enjoy a good movie or a drama from the BBC. But I cannot tolerate the intrusiveness of a TV running constantly, as is the case in some homes and ICUs. And for some reason, once I knew I had cancer, television repelled me. I couldn’t stand it and never turned it on, at home or in the hospital. During my illness, television felt like an instrument of oppression. My television-watching hospital roommates drove me to spend nights on the short, uncomfortable couches in floor guest lounges (ugly, uncomfortable places to sleep in, even in S-K), or harry the nurses to change my room, or threaten to leave the hospital entirely. The only roommate worse than a constant TV watcher is someone with Alzheimer’s who shouts or sings the same song or phrases for twenty-four hours a day—literally. I roomed with such a woman at St. Luke’s–Roosevelt, where men so disordered often held forth noisily in the hall outside my room all day long. However, I encountered no Alzheimer’s patients at S-K.
My first roommate during this first course of chemo was a sweet, mild woman who said she could not use earphones to watch television because chemotherapy had damaged her hearing. I didn’t know how earphones would impinge on damaged hearing, and I thought then that she was an anomaly. (But hearing is usually damaged by chemo.) Luckily, she did not watch constantly, and a doctor offered me the use of the doctors’ lounge, a narrow room with a single bed (usually unmade) and a long wooden table surrounded by wooden chairs. I used this room on several occasions but had trouble concentrating there. This is not unusual for me: I have trouble working anywhere but my own space. It was easier for me to write in bed than in the doctors’ lounge; maybe beds are interchangeable enough to fool my literary psyche-blockers.
This roommate had had several months of chemotherapy and had severe problems. I wasn’t sure whether her cancer was advanced or if her problems resulted from the chemo. I was dismayed—no, shocked —to find myself turning away from her and her problems: I disapproved of myself. It has always been a point of pride for me to confront the harsh or unpleasant, refusing to turn away from the ugly or uncomfortable. Yet now I was becoming the kind of person I scorned, someone who preferred smug complacency and comfort to acknowledging the pain in the world. But I didn’t want to know what was happening to this woman; I didn’t know what to expect from chemo, and she made me fear for myself. She seemed to be alone in the world except for a loving sister, who visited her faithfully every day and took her home after a couple of days.
The beautiful young woman who arrived next did not watch television at all—a blessing for me, not her: she was simply too depressed. Only twenty-nine, she had developed breast cancer a few years before and had a mastectomy, but now the cancer had recurred and was in her spine, liver, and stomach. She often called the nurses, to whisper that she was in pain and ask for medication. Suspecting that she was dying, I asked the nurses, who murmured that she was very sick. One hinted that she didn’t have long. Since nurses are honor bound not to discuss their patients, the fact that they answered me indicated how distressed they were. They were very kind to her, but she, locked in terror and sorrow and pain, was hardly aware of them (or me).
I was so
I am not a television hater on principle. Before my illness—and again now—I watch television on evenings when I eat dinner at home alone, and I enjoy a good movie or a drama from the BBC. But I cannot tolerate the intrusiveness of a TV running constantly, as is the case in some homes and ICUs. And for some reason, once I knew I had cancer, television repelled me. I couldn’t stand it and never turned it on, at home or in the hospital. During my illness, television felt like an instrument of oppression. My television-watching hospital roommates drove me to spend nights on the short, uncomfortable couches in floor guest lounges (ugly, uncomfortable places to sleep in, even in S-K), or harry the nurses to change my room, or threaten to leave the hospital entirely. The only roommate worse than a constant TV watcher is someone with Alzheimer’s who shouts or sings the same song or phrases for twenty-four hours a day—literally. I roomed with such a woman at St. Luke’s–Roosevelt, where men so disordered often held forth noisily in the hall outside my room all day long. However, I encountered no Alzheimer’s patients at S-K.
My first roommate during this first course of chemo was a sweet, mild woman who said she could not use earphones to watch television because chemotherapy had damaged her hearing. I didn’t know how earphones would impinge on damaged hearing, and I thought then that she was an anomaly. (But hearing is usually damaged by chemo.) Luckily, she did not watch constantly, and a doctor offered me the use of the doctors’ lounge, a narrow room with a single bed (usually unmade) and a long wooden table surrounded by wooden chairs. I used this room on several occasions but had trouble concentrating there. This is not unusual for me: I have trouble working anywhere but my own space. It was easier for me to write in bed than in the doctors’ lounge; maybe beds are interchangeable enough to fool my literary psyche-blockers.
This roommate had had several months of chemotherapy and had severe problems. I wasn’t sure whether her cancer was advanced or if her problems resulted from the chemo. I was dismayed—no, shocked —to find myself turning away from her and her problems: I disapproved of myself. It has always been a point of pride for me to confront the harsh or unpleasant, refusing to turn away from the ugly or uncomfortable. Yet now I was becoming the kind of person I scorned, someone who preferred smug complacency and comfort to acknowledging the pain in the world. But I didn’t want to know what was happening to this woman; I didn’t know what to expect from chemo, and she made me fear for myself. She seemed to be alone in the world except for a loving sister, who visited her faithfully every day and took her home after a couple of days.
The beautiful young woman who arrived next did not watch television at all—a blessing for me, not her: she was simply too depressed. Only twenty-nine, she had developed breast cancer a few years before and had a mastectomy, but now the cancer had recurred and was in her spine, liver, and stomach. She often called the nurses, to whisper that she was in pain and ask for medication. Suspecting that she was dying, I asked the nurses, who murmured that she was very sick. One hinted that she didn’t have long. Since nurses are honor bound not to discuss their patients, the fact that they answered me indicated how distressed they were. They were very kind to her, but she, locked in terror and sorrow and pain, was hardly aware of them (or me).
I was so
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