Yes - my bedroom. I've had a love/hate relationship with this house for as long as I can remember. I bought my sister's half of the house and moved in with my husband and son shortly after my parents died in 1991 (within 8 days of each other).

As a kid, it was my goal to move out of this house. It's very small, and there were too many bad memories of my mother's attempted suicides and abuse. My father and grandmother also died in this house, and it didn't occur to me that I would have to sleep in the room where my father died. However, it was his wish that we live here - and I really loved the back yard. I figured we could fix up the house and make it our own - it never happened.

I wasn't expecting to be stricken with a terminal illness that would leave me homebound and bedridden for the most part. I had to work through all those memories, but now it has become a "sanctuary" for me.

When I'm stuck in bed, I meditate, pray and listen to music. When I was a kid, I spent as much time as I could doing the same thing (trying to avoid my mother), so it's not that much of a stretch for me. I just have to remember I'm almost 50, and not 9 years of age.