I’m tethered. Captive in a small room, its walls closing in on me, shrinking it smaller.

I want to get out. I must get out. But I can’t. I mustn’t.

The door to the bathroom looms in the distance, three feet away. I must go there at least. The cough, the cough makes me want to go, and it makes me want to not move. For to move is to cough.

But I must go. The fluids, the fluids run into my arm continuously, 100 cc per hour. More than three ounces. Every hour. Who drinks that much?

I know if it was left up to me, I would not drink so much. For it only makes me need to get up and it’s hard to get up. It’s hard to maneuver the distance. I have to push the IV pole along with my right hand.

And I have to carry the densely solid electronic brick in my left. It is cold and smooth, heavy. It pulls at the circular patches glued onto my chest and abdomen when I forget it’s there. Its colorful wires mock me, can’t get away, they say, can’t get away.

It is my portable monitor, tracking my heartbeat and respirations. I imagine there is a main terminal at the nurse’s station down the hall where someone is keeping an eye on my rhythm. No, the nurse tells me, it is being read in another building. Another building?

Why can’t I be in another building? The one I live in for instance?

Another hour has passed and I must go to the bathroom again. I grab on to the bedrail and pull myself upright. I remember the box, grab the box. I stand. The room spins a little; the cough pushes me forward.

Afterward, I cross the tiny room to the sink. Why is the sink placed so far away, on the other side of the room? At least it’s not in another building.

I settle back into bed fixing the wires around me. The IV line must be on top of the covers or else it pulls at my left inner elbow, and it’s sore from receiving the powerful antibiotics. I bend my arm and feel around the entry site. It’s soft. That’s good, I think, the vein is holding up.

I lie on my left side, where the pneumonia is. I can hear the expiratory wheeze when I exhale. I shut out the room and concentrate while breathing in. There’s no inspiratory wheeze audible. That’s good. In between breaths, I hear the gurgling, the bubbling in my chest. It’s almost a purr. I sound like a cat, I say to the nurse when she’s in. She laughs.

Everyone is so nice, especially when they are carrying needles. I have to draw blood, they say. I groan. What is your full name and birth date, they ask me. I murmur my answer. I’ve said it so often, I no longer have to try to remember. I know it’s a safety check along with checking my ID band. I know the drill. I’ve been there, on the other side.