When I first began chemo in 2019, I was on an intense chemotherapy regime involving two very powerful drugs, Ifosfamide and Etoposide. Every other cycle was a five-day treatment which took 6 hours minimum, and involved me carrying a "fluid backpack" 24/7 to flush the drugs through my system.
Due to the backpack, and the potential of reacting badly to the drugs, the hospital wanted me to stay close for the full five days. And given I live over an hour away, they put me up in a little hospital-owned hotel just a minute's walk from the Cancer Centre. It was called the Cotton Rooms, and it was specially designed for cancer patients - emergency buzzers all over, hygeine the highest priority, etc. I had to have a relative stay with me, so Mum and I roomed together.
Every morning, we woke up to the view of the BT tower, and buses rumbling along the street below us. Mum helped me count out my thousand morning meds, and then we'd go for breakfast, which was very good. Then round the corner to the centre for treatment. Many, many hours later, we'd trundle back to the hotel, and flop in the room. Dad would fetch us a takeaway dinner and then head off to stay with his brother, and mum and I would eat our food and watch whatever rubbish we could find on TV.
This little sketch shows mum looking out of the window, through the gauzy yellow curtains, as the sky darkens.