As you can see, I’m wearing pants. And if I’m wearing pants then that means I went to the doctor. I got my matching orders from my PCP two weeks ago to go back to the hematologist office for more weekly blood work. There’s something weird about going to the hematologist office. For one, everyone’s on top of their game. I mean from the office personal, to the lab technicians, to the doctor himself. They know my name (which my own PCP has trouble with), and they know exactly where I need to go, and what they need to do.
The lobby of his office is pleasant enough, comfortable chairs, and a TV playing either Dr Phil or the Price is Right. But once you head into the inner sanctum you see a maze of offices and exam rooms. Then you come to the big door. Inside the rooms are cold, the large lab has at least ten lab stations and techs. But beyond the lab is a room full of large recliners each with IV stations hooked to a number chemo patients. Some are old, some are young, some laughing, others just keeping to themselves. A number of them don’t even look sick.
You know, I’ve spent a lot of time in different exam and treatment rooms. Some in group therapy with other mental health patients. In emergency rooms with thin curtains separating life from death. ICU units, Pulmonary Care Units, were I’ve spent weeks recuperating. But this is a new one for me. But much like the PCU and ICU, there’s that mixture of optimism, quiet, and dark souls that have just giving up. I look at death with a morbid sense of humor, especially over the last several years. Some look to it as some sort of “resurrection”. I see that as a defeatist attitude, a cop out for doing nothing about the situation. So when my life closes in, I’m bound to go out kicking and screaming. Remaining optimistic, even with my morbid appetites. Hoping going with my pants on.
All post written by
FD Thornton, Jr
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