I had to go get my first scans yesterday after my initial treatment of IL-2 a month ago.
I was on the T (Boston's Metro). The Greenline is somewhat like an old trolley squeaking and knocking as it finds it way beneath Boston's history. We passed under where the terrorists had so recently exploded home made bombs to savage young and old alike, and for no reason other than through the twisted perversity of their own ambitions and faith. Fuck them and their kind.
I was joined by four intrepid travelers, maps in hand, trying to negotiate the city's plan. Well, at least one was the others sat back with smug expressions of tourists who somehow were above the day to day menagerie of this great city. It wasn't long before I became interested in one of the women in the group. She maintained this odd expression, something of a smile, smirk, or some self-satisfied expression that god had given her to live her days with as an outward expression of her vacant soul. God has a peculiar sense of humor.
Or may she was just an idiot, another joke from on-high.
Dunno.
We all got off at the Fenway stop and the the four were left behind me as they tried to decipher in which direction they could find Fenway Park. The woman still looking an odd mix of village idiot or debutante.
I made my way to the hospital where I had my blood drawn. Piece of cake.
After, I had to go get a Cat-Scan in another building. The complex of hospitals in Boston is daunting and inspiring in the same light, just waiting for the government to screw up our health care. Think Amtrak or the Post Office with a gurney and a box of needles. Not hopeful in that area.
Anyway, the fellow giving the scan was surprised when I told him how many scans I have had (18 in five years), and will have over the coming months (4-6 within the next 6 months).
I told him that after a few more my dick will look like Luke Skywalker's Light-Saber, but if we can kill those tiny Death Stars in my torso, it will be a sacrifice well worth it.
I am no Luke Skywalker, but maybe Obi-wan-ka-nobe...I always wanted to be the wizard Gandalf, or the coolest of the Jedi Knights. The other rat like Jedi, well, no thanks, but Kenobi, well yeah baby.
Next, on the agenda was my MRI, even a wizard has to keep appointments.
I got in early and before I knew it I was inside the tube with the sounds of an African tin drum band pounding out the sounds that resembled what I imagine the sounds would be like if Robbie the Robot was fucking R2D2, or that other one, Catch me if you can CP3PO, or something like that. Lots of pounding, grinding, and whistles until finally the attendant said after about 45 minutes that my time was up. I asked him if he might like to rephrase that, because I am in no way feeling like my time is up. He laughed and then said that my tests were over with.
On the way back to Logan Airport, where I work, I sat wondering about the vunerable position patients find themselves. When I was in the hospital, it wasn't the big events that seemed an issue, I was just an involuntary spectator to those, it's the small things that make you feel helpless. Like not being able to pee when you want, or to get up and just stand beside your bed without a series of alarms going off at the nursing stations, rousing a platoon of young Nurse Ratchets coming to help you get back into bed and to see just how strange you have become by the toxic soup you have consumed.
I remembered an excerpt from a book that described the Battle of the Chosin Res, during the Korean War. The Army and the Marines were savaged by hundreds of thousands of Chinese in a surprise attack as the US military was pushing through the mountains of northern Korea. In a lull reporters were allowed into the middle of the battle scene where they were still surrounded by the Chinese, many wounded who had been through the hell of battle in the snow and cold lay in a line waiting to be evacuated. One female reporter, true story, was working the line trying to get information. She knelt down next to a wounded soldier and with great sympathy asked what she could do for him.
He was bundled in his military gear as well as extra coats and blankets, he looked up at her and said, "Well, if you can figure a way to get three inches of dick out of six inches of pants and jacket so that I can take a piss, that'd be a start."
It always comes down to the small things, those basic functions, and when those are gone we begin to really feel the misery of our vunerably.
I remember a fellow I worked with at an airport in Maine. Small airport compared to the big city airports I am familiar with now. He was older than I, and looked like he had never been off the farm, but to buy feed for his livestock. Anyway, life had now deemed that he lift and tout bags for the airlines. Nice guy, buy he had a strange habit.
One day when I was entering the men's room, Lester (useful name) was standing at the urinal. He normally wore bib overalls and had many other winter garments on, as bundled as were the GIs at the Chosin Res. He had removed most of them and dropped his overalls to the floor exposing his backside in all it's pale glory.
I said, Lester, wow, what's up buddy, why don't you have your pants on.
He didn't seem to think anything was the matter and just shrugged.
Well, at home we have a three holer, two for my wife and I and a smaller one for the child. We don't think anything about it.
I told him that while he was a fine cut of a man, seeing the cleavage that split his rear was something he might want to keep between himself, his wife, and the wooden splintered settee of his outhouse.
Strange thing, he never did. Those of us who used the men's room many times found ourself confronted with the pale complexion of Lester' backside as he stood pissing into his porcelain friend hanging on the wall in our restroom.
I wonder how he is doing. I also wonder how the smug or simple folk like the ones I had seen on the T react to that inevitable day when the doctor says you have a cancer or a something something illness. Does it really matter which one. Well, maybe eventually it does, but in the short term, it's the shock of something new in your life over which it will determine some control, or until it kills you.
In the mean time I am becoming the Silver Wizard with powers that I hope will extend to my ability to find a urinal when I need to.
So, fuck you to the little Death Stars that try to end our time and interrupt my toilette.
Yes, let me say it again.....
Fuck you little Death Stars.........
I was on the T (Boston's Metro). The Greenline is somewhat like an old trolley squeaking and knocking as it finds it way beneath Boston's history. We passed under where the terrorists had so recently exploded home made bombs to savage young and old alike, and for no reason other than through the twisted perversity of their own ambitions and faith. Fuck them and their kind.
I was joined by four intrepid travelers, maps in hand, trying to negotiate the city's plan. Well, at least one was the others sat back with smug expressions of tourists who somehow were above the day to day menagerie of this great city. It wasn't long before I became interested in one of the women in the group. She maintained this odd expression, something of a smile, smirk, or some self-satisfied expression that god had given her to live her days with as an outward expression of her vacant soul. God has a peculiar sense of humor.
Or may she was just an idiot, another joke from on-high.
 |
| Idiot Smiles |
Dunno.
We all got off at the Fenway stop and the the four were left behind me as they tried to decipher in which direction they could find Fenway Park. The woman still looking an odd mix of village idiot or debutante.
I made my way to the hospital where I had my blood drawn. Piece of cake.
After, I had to go get a Cat-Scan in another building. The complex of hospitals in Boston is daunting and inspiring in the same light, just waiting for the government to screw up our health care. Think Amtrak or the Post Office with a gurney and a box of needles. Not hopeful in that area.
Anyway, the fellow giving the scan was surprised when I told him how many scans I have had (18 in five years), and will have over the coming months (4-6 within the next 6 months).
| You get the picture, eh. |
I am no Luke Skywalker, but maybe Obi-wan-ka-nobe...I always wanted to be the wizard Gandalf, or the coolest of the Jedi Knights. The other rat like Jedi, well, no thanks, but Kenobi, well yeah baby.
Next, on the agenda was my MRI, even a wizard has to keep appointments.
I got in early and before I knew it I was inside the tube with the sounds of an African tin drum band pounding out the sounds that resembled what I imagine the sounds would be like if Robbie the Robot was fucking R2D2, or that other one, Catch me if you can CP3PO, or something like that. Lots of pounding, grinding, and whistles until finally the attendant said after about 45 minutes that my time was up. I asked him if he might like to rephrase that, because I am in no way feeling like my time is up. He laughed and then said that my tests were over with.
On the way back to Logan Airport, where I work, I sat wondering about the vunerable position patients find themselves. When I was in the hospital, it wasn't the big events that seemed an issue, I was just an involuntary spectator to those, it's the small things that make you feel helpless. Like not being able to pee when you want, or to get up and just stand beside your bed without a series of alarms going off at the nursing stations, rousing a platoon of young Nurse Ratchets coming to help you get back into bed and to see just how strange you have become by the toxic soup you have consumed.
I remembered an excerpt from a book that described the Battle of the Chosin Res, during the Korean War. The Army and the Marines were savaged by hundreds of thousands of Chinese in a surprise attack as the US military was pushing through the mountains of northern Korea. In a lull reporters were allowed into the middle of the battle scene where they were still surrounded by the Chinese, many wounded who had been through the hell of battle in the snow and cold lay in a line waiting to be evacuated. One female reporter, true story, was working the line trying to get information. She knelt down next to a wounded soldier and with great sympathy asked what she could do for him.
He was bundled in his military gear as well as extra coats and blankets, he looked up at her and said, "Well, if you can figure a way to get three inches of dick out of six inches of pants and jacket so that I can take a piss, that'd be a start."
It always comes down to the small things, those basic functions, and when those are gone we begin to really feel the misery of our vunerably.
I remember a fellow I worked with at an airport in Maine. Small airport compared to the big city airports I am familiar with now. He was older than I, and looked like he had never been off the farm, but to buy feed for his livestock. Anyway, life had now deemed that he lift and tout bags for the airlines. Nice guy, buy he had a strange habit.
One day when I was entering the men's room, Lester (useful name) was standing at the urinal. He normally wore bib overalls and had many other winter garments on, as bundled as were the GIs at the Chosin Res. He had removed most of them and dropped his overalls to the floor exposing his backside in all it's pale glory.
I said, Lester, wow, what's up buddy, why don't you have your pants on.
He didn't seem to think anything was the matter and just shrugged.
Well, at home we have a three holer, two for my wife and I and a smaller one for the child. We don't think anything about it.
I told him that while he was a fine cut of a man, seeing the cleavage that split his rear was something he might want to keep between himself, his wife, and the wooden splintered settee of his outhouse.
Strange thing, he never did. Those of us who used the men's room many times found ourself confronted with the pale complexion of Lester' backside as he stood pissing into his porcelain friend hanging on the wall in our restroom.
 |
In the mean time I am becoming the Silver Wizard with powers that I hope will extend to my ability to find a urinal when I need to.
So, fuck you to the little Death Stars that try to end our time and interrupt my toilette.
Yes, let me say it again.....
Fuck you little Death Stars.........
Hi there Tim, I was actually just checking out a few of your posts and had a quick question about your blog. I was hoping you could email me back when you get the chance -emilywalsh688 (at) gmail.com- Thanks : )
ReplyDeleteEmmy