What is the Reality of Space

I've been thinking a lot lately about the reality of space--as in the empty area around oneself. In the country, it is vast in many ways. It may be filled with trees and mountains, but there's elbow room to roam and breathe. In the city, at least in my experience, the reality of space changes radically. For me, even now, my living space is defined in square feet--width times length = area. At first, I lived in 5'x 8'--room for a cot sized bed and a built in desk and bookcase. I shared that with an indefinite number of roaches. When I couldn't get rid of them, I named them.

Then I moved up in the world--to a space 8' x 16'. That was special. I could now have standing bookcases, a chair, a table, and a sofa couch. The next big move was to the space I inhabit now---16' x l6', a little peace of heaven since I have the top of a tree right outside my window that gives me the illusion of being closer to nature. Sometimes it is more than an illusion when a cardinal perches on a limb for awhile, or a wren, and even once, a macaw that had escaped from someone else's space. I have learned in the city to love my space; it is the only place where I can be truly alone here. It is very big in that sense.

The room where I have my chemotherapy is about 6' x 10'--I can't be exact because I am too embarassed to pull out a measuring tape and find out for sure. It is small for such a big production in my life. I have a window in my space there that looks out on other buildings. I can't see the sky, but it serves as a reminder that there is a world beyond that I will eventually, after the all day treatment, be able to return to. There is one solid wall behind me, and a glass/plastic bubble wall beside me opposite the window. Behind this bubble wall I can see the motions of another patient in his/her treatment space--if I look really closely, I am able to discern if he/she is lying down or sitting up. In front of me is a curtain that the nurses often try to close, but I insist stays open. I don't mind if anyone looks in, and I don't mind if I see the patient across from me. Actually, I prefer to see human beings moving around. It is less claustrophobic that way. And there I sit, in a lounging chair, with a TV screen on a metal frame I can pull toward me to watch, or to turn off and push away from me. I have an intravenous stand with a number of hooks for different bags of liquid poisons that will be fed into me. There is a device that automatically controls and monitors the amount and speed the bags are pumped into my veins. There is a chair and a mini desk where my nurse comes to record what is going on with me. Am I still alive? Am I in pain? Has my veins collapsed yet? Am I sick? What is my birthdate? All these questions and more to make sure she is doing what needs to be done to the correct patient, no less. Depending on the particular nurse, the space gets smaller or larger with her presence. I think I unconsciously decide which it will be according to whether or not the nurse has administered my IV without blowing a vein or with undue probing and poking and bruising. I've had only two nurses so far that have done this well, Maria and Maya; and whenever they came in to talk to me or do anything, their presence made the space a safer place to be.

So is it the size of the space that makes it real as a living space, or are there intangibles that actually create a feeling of living space? And does this matter?
I wonder?