Friday, August 22, 2008


Lucky me: three hospital visits in one week. Today it was just for my regular monthly infusion of Zometa, a bone-strengthening drug. After an hour in the waiting room, I finally get called back for my infusion (I.V.). It is a couple of big rooms ringed with large recliners, a variety of I.V. stands, and little swing-over-your-head televisions that hang down.

Ahh, cable! I usually enjoy 1/2 hour to 45 minutes of the food network, or the history channel, or one of the other stations I don't get anymore.
But I'm next to a chatty lady today so a bit reluctantly, I turn off the tv. She is an older lady, very chic with extravagant fake eyelashes. She's wearing a complicated headscarf and a hat. She has heard the nurses asking about my transplant and she wants to know more. (Two of the nurses have recently transferred from the BMT department and kindly stop by to see how I'm doing and if I have any questions.)

I really don't want to talk about it, but that seems a violation of the cancerhood guidelines, so we chat for awhile. "Wow," she says, "When I come here, I'm reminded of that saying, 'I felt sorry for myself because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.' I always find people who are so much worse off." I don't know whether to be flattered or... well, I decide to be flattered, because I know what she means. We chat some more and part with a friendly hand-squeeze, instant chemo-buddies.

(*That Goddess It's Just Zometa)

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