I don't recall it, but I guess it is possible I was a whiner as a child. And if so, then, Miles is just living out a genetic gift from me. Regardless of who taught whom, it is a big day of whining.
I spent my Monday night, date night doing the bedtime scramble. No complaints as they were both happy and then tucked in by 8. Then comes the indulgent part. Jim was out of town on business so I got to watch the Caps and the Wizards play from tucked in my bed. The results weren't pretty but it was nice to engross myself in the home teams' efforts. Miles climbed upstairs early and was allowed to cuddle with Mom. Such a sweet boy. He comments on my "really short hair" and asks when it will be summer and start growing again.
Unexpectedly, today's chemo experience was like a trip to the DMV. With the DMV, going in, you should be prepared for administrative hurdles, some incompetence, possibly unwarranted attitude. You put on your patience and forbearance and bite your tongue. Why make yourself crazy fretting about the process. Head down. Get what you need and get out.
I didn't realize what I was getting into and I was ill-humored today. I walked in not wanting to be there and it did not go up from there.
With these twelve treatments, we only have an oncology visit every third trip. The oncology appointments run impressively efficiently (the physicians' time is valuable). I've never waited more than five minutes to be called. Today was our first trip in without seeing the good doctor first. (And, oh honey, we learned whose time is not valued).
We got there at 9:30. Sent to another building for paperwork. Fine. Sent to a third building for labs. Fine. That was quick and we were told it would be half an hour until infusion had the results. Fine. Jim went to get coffee. I was in no humor for college kids, so I went to infusion to wait. I let them know I was back and sat down. We watched 9:45. 10:00. 10:15. 10:30. Drift by.
At 10:45 I went to inquire about the process. I was told I'd be called when everything was ready. Yes, thank you but that wasn't my question. My question was simply how should I proceed the next ten visits to avoid this wait? I was told to go to the labs first (I did). I told to remember to check back in (I did). I was told labs take about a half an hour (or not ...). See, I should have just sat quietly. It's the DMV. There is no way for me to help improve the experience. Sit down, we will call you when we call you. We were there for a one hour drip infusion. We left after 2:00.
So, hard day on top of ill- humor. I'm not sure why. At my first infusion appointment, when I didn't know how complex our chemo friendship would be, I saw a young woman there. A pretty young thing. Probably not 35. She made an impression because she seemed so angry and so exhausted at the same time. An unspoken fuck you, world. Her wig and knit hat were askew. She was in rumpled sweats. Her body language was leave me alone. Her husband sat quietly working on his phone. I didn't understand what was happening. Obviously, I still don't but today I felt like she looked. Maybe not angry, but so over it.
What else to note? Some observations after six trips to infusion: I'm starting to recognize the Tuesday patients. There are a few other young-ish folks. Another woman, she looks younger (and tougher) than me. She wears cool motorcycle boots. An outdoorsy man my age. They both come with their spouses. We haven't talked or even nod-acknowledged the familiarity.
At our first infusion appointment I prattled nervously to Jim about the robot that brings the lab results as such a cute R2D2. Today, I heard a guy talking to his dad (he is a Tuesday regular, too) about the neat R2D2 - first trip to chemo with dad.
This is no private room for birth at Sibley. You can call it "ground floor" all day long, but the infusion center is in a basement. The infusion "rooms" are 20 or so little curtained areas, many windowless. If you get a room in the back, your phones don't work. You hear your neighbors' conversations, their parents' angst and daytime tv talk shows. The bathrooms, let's just say overused. The lighting, fluorescent.
We turn off the overhead light. We keep the tv off. We talk quietly. We try to appreciate the infusion nurses who make the program. Head down. Get what we need and get out. Wocka, wocka at the DMV.
