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I walk up to the third floor, walk down to the ground floor, walk to Proton, walk back, shop, unpack, travel to and from Boston, and radiate…. this is what I do.

My doctor told me after my session on Friday, that I may be doing too much, that I should consider staying in Boston on the weekend…that the traveling may be contributing to my exhaustion and my general state of unwellness…that what I’m going through is tiring on its own. But what am I really doing? I’m existing. I’m not engaging in any high impact activities, not even low impact activities, unless you consider walking from here to there. I have to go home on the weekends…it’s what I look forward to all week long. The thought that I couldn’t/shouldn’t do this, makes me feel like crying. I think the weekday routine is more of what is wearing me out, not the getting here and back. I think to myself…”I need a break from the energy sapping midweek routine. But what would that be?” I need to radiate, (can’t skip that), I need to get to and from radiation, and at this point most of my friends who are accompanying me to Proton, are also driving me (so not much more I can do to make that any easier), and I need to shop and eat. Oh those apartment stairs though. I’m grateful for the apartment and it’s location, but like any living space, it comes with its own set of responsibilities and quirks. I have to take the trash out (note to self: buy ant traps, and snake kitchen sink, so water doesn’t back up into bathroom sink,); I have to look after its tidiness, etc. An apartment is not a hotel. It would be great to stay at a hotel for a couple of days, but the additional expense would make me feel guilty. I continue to think.

And then something happens…

My friend Pat drove up to Boston to take me to radiation and drive me home on Friday. I packed up my stuff as usual. I stripped the bed, took home the dirty towels, packed up my computer equipment, and made sure the kitchen was free of any ant attracting items. I locked the door and then I put the key to the apartment in my pants pocket. I thought about putting it into one of my carry-home bags, but it just seemed a step too far (I was anxious to get out of town)…I felt it would be fine in my pocket. I lugged my three large bags down the stairs. Pat and I hit the road and didn’t stop until we hit a Subway shop about and hour and half away from Boston. I checked my pocket…still had the key. Pat went to Dunkin Donuts, I stayed in the car…I still had my key. We got back on the road, and about thirty minutes into this part of the drive, we both heard a clinking sound. It sounded like it could have been my key. I checked my pocket…no key. One and one is two…the sound must have been the key. We continued to drive home; we did not stop again. We did not open the door to the car until we got to my house…(all the time I’m confident that when I get home, I’d look under the seat and find the key). We pull into the driveway. I open up the door and immediately start to look for they key. I look, she looks, Jon looks, Jamie looks, Rachel looks…we look everywhere…in every nook and cranny. We check my bags…we check Pat’s bags…NO KEY! It’s an out of this world mystery. Through what void did this key exit? I start to worry about the logistics. How will I get another key? When will I get another key? Where will I stay?

And then it hits me…I will stay in a hotel…I’ll get to stay at a hotel. I’ll have that break I so badly need. Jon called and booked a hotel room at a hotel directly behind Mass General for Monday and Tuesday. Until I’m able to get duplicate keys from the building’s landlord on Tuesday…I will use the elevator, order room service, watch TV (no TV at the apartment), bask in calm, cool neutrality, and just happily do very little. The Universe took the apartment key, and delivered me just what I needed…a hotel room.