Hey Gang:
What’s the haps? Weird stuff I’ll tell you. This chemo and hospital life, glad I only have to do this five more times (with a little luck-- a bit less).
Anyway, I had a stark, stark realization late yesterday afternoon of how lucky I am. My roommate – whose name I can’t pronounce and it would be inappropriate to mention anyway – is having a tough go of it.
At about 4 pm yesterday two doctors in white lab coats floated into the room like disembodied deities to prognosticate over this poor guy. Because of my roommate is from somewhere in Central Africa there is a huge language barrier between him and his doctors, but luckily—at least for ease of translation—his daughter was there.
Like most people, the deities thought communication with this guy could be improved by raising the volume. So at first they kept saying the same thing over and over again a little louder each time until the daughter jumped in and began translating.
I’m sitting less than three feet away with the only thing separating me from their life and death discussion is a teal curtain with a white mesh top between the two beds. I was about to excuse myself and drag my IV stand and assorted chemicals out of the room and into the hallway, when the father says he doesn’t want to know anything and his daughter is empowered to make all his medical decisions for him. Not only that he wants the two doctors and his daughter to find someplace else to talk about it.
The doctors and the daughter leave room and come back in about 25 minutes; the daughter is visibly shaken by the talk. She plops in a chair in front of me trying to catch her breath. I don’t exist to her; she is alone in the world for those few minutes. So I shut up and try to blend into the wall. She can sit there forever if it gives her a little comfort.
It seemed like a long time, but in a bit she lifts her head, smiles at me, and walks over to her father. Because the teal curtain between the beds is about knee high I see the bottom of her legs feet as she balances herself on the side of the single hospital bed and begins to whisper to her dad. I don’t speak whatever it is they are speaking, but one doesn’t need to be a U.N. translator to know she’s having a hard heartbreaking talk.
So how do I make this about me? This poor son-of-a gun has an operation scheduled and I am pretty sure that he is way worse off than I am. So I am thankful that I have light at the end of my tunnel, I have you guys to walk this road with me, and my prognosis is blue skies.
Love to all,
Bill
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