I wanted him to stay the night in the hospital with me; all drugged up, I needed help sitting up getting out of bed and. I had a mastectomy the day before, Thursday, and due to necrosis, I remained for a follow-up procedure Monday. He didn't have his kids for the weekend so that, he said, he could be there for me. While inching the hallways of the hospital together, I requested he stay that night on the recliner in my room with me. He said no, justifying he didn't have his retainer. Bewildered, I affirmed that his teeth weren't going to get crooked in one night; he replied I was acting like a bitch. My ass is covered by a few ties in the hospital gown, I'm bound by various tubes to an IV pole as I'm walking at the speed of a 95 year old; I'm called a bitch just a few doors down from my hospital occupancy. I couldn't believe my ears; having cancer, losing a breast and being called a derogatory name by my love is too much for me to bear. I continue down the hall to a corner where I sit and sob, letting it all out: fear, self-pity, anger and loneliness. Bald, sullen, disfigured and forlorn, I inhabit the space with my pitiful energy. A nearby patient and her caregiver comfort me, astounded at the explanation of my woes. I feel physically and emotionally defeated. The nurse arrives with tissues and a Xanax, accompanying me to my room. My Italian mom on repeat: "DO YOU WANT TO EAT MEATBALLS?" As I slip into sleep, I desperately wonder where can I feel emotionally safe and find some comfort and solace?