It’s Friday, August 29th (2025). We have been here since Wednesday. L is still asleep and I’m in the midst of my usual hospital morning routine.

Once the light starts to change outside I wait until she gets up to go to the bathroom. She’s on a steady stream of fluids, so usually every few hours. When she’s finished, I help her get back into bed and then I go out for a quick run. I come back, shower, get dressed, get myself coffee from the machine at the end of the hall, order our breakfast, and then sit down to write.

Most of the time I can sleep okay, having finally figured out an acceptable arrangement of the couch cushions and hospital pillows. We’ve had some rough nights in the hospital but thankfully (knock on wood) our chemo admissions like this one have been pretty predictable, and she sleeps well (other than getting up to pee every few hours). Still, even on the nights where our nurse was mercifully quiet and efficient and I wake up feeling decently rested there’s something about the sunrise from the hospital window that makes it feel like you’ve made it through something.