And then I move and the realisation that Life Sucks really hits me because it hurts to move and I instinctively use my right arm to throw off a blanket, full up the duvet, reach for a glass of water, turn on the light.
And my right arm hurts when I use it and there is now some tubing in it attached to a bulb and fluid draining out of it and the plaster which keeps the tube in place is over my scar which itches and in my armpit which means I can't wash properly and the tube is full of icky coloured stuff, which puts me off my breakfast (and lunch and supper!).
And quite frankly, this makes me all a bit snippy and cross.
I sometimes lie there wondering when I will die and what will happen if I do. HWISO and I have had these conversations in the past, slightly jokingly. Now, we have them in all seriousness.
"You are not to stay here" I say. "You have a tendency to shrineage and it will be impossible for another woman to live here after me. It could be all a bit "Rebecca" like."
"But I don't want to get married again."
"You do, if you know what's good for you."
"Let's not talk about it."
I am not dying. It is not terminal. There is a lot of hope that I will recover and it will never reoccur. This is a chronic condition, not a terminal disease. For me.
For others, they have no choice. That is why I support this campaign so very much. Let's talk about dying and make sure your loved ones know what you want.