Time for scans. Time to get dressed.

My shoes. I like to wear my sharpest looking shoes. Here’s why:

I wear my sharpest shoes to remind me I’m not as sick as these clothes make me look. It helps me to try and dress well. It makes me feel better, better about myself, better about what I can do, what I can accomplish.

Penn is a great hospital, however it’s a city hospital. Therefore the gowns you wear for the tests are “city”  – too big and don’t fit, probably 100 years old, open in the back so you ass could hang out – a great feature. They have you wear two gowns, one in the front and one in the back, so you ass does not hang out, wow that’s thoughtful. Rather than get new gowns or a robe style like at Sloane Kettering (they have a ok solution, fancier for sure, that works better)  just throw two at it, fuck it, we’ve got billions of them. I can hear that discussion/presentation in the meeting, showing the metric, explaining the cost benefit to the solution, totally disregarding the patient. That’s not important to them, mainly because there not in here week after week, having to put these two gowns on and look sick.  Seriously, if your were not sick before the gown – put one on.  You’ll feel like a sick person.

Waiting Room. Shit. I never talk in the waiting room. And here is why:

Talk about ports with the guy next to me? Here’s how that conversation goes:

“What is a port?”

“Its an implant in your chest the connects to your carotid artery.” – nice.

He’s older but cuts logs and active. He doesn’t like it. Then the guy across joins the conversation. Another guy is asking why he needs to have a line in today, he is giving blood tomorrow, he’s confused.

They’re not extracting from that line they’re pumping shit in. And oh yea – the guy with the port has a line in his arm because he’s having a pet scan. So I guess the nuclear shit can not go thru a port. Less of a reason to get one.

Back to the guy across. He proceed to tell us how he will check out. He says not like his dad did – alive too long it sounds. He explains he will go off the chemotherapy, pump up the morphine and end it himself. He’ll make sure there is no mess too. That’s thoughtful. Fuck!

Yeah- never talk to the people in the waiting room.

Back to my shoes –  of which I’m not wearing.

There is a new protocol to follow for scans. They give you these socks. No fancy shoes. Low budget airplane socks. Sick looking socks. With grip on them so you don’t slip. Functional in that respect but sick looking no the less. Ugh. I could have shoes on and probably should. However today I followed all the rules and have the socks on. Trying to maybe make it feel like the beach. Toes in the sand. Barefoot waking. Ha. Well with the neuropathy effecting my feet and hands, numbness and cramping, limiting my use of my hands and feet and making my feet feel like blocks of ice these socks kind of help. That’s great. Frozen feet. Like your walking in the snow with no shoes on. Not at all the beach. My hands -challenged even more to make them work properly. Ugh

I compare san days to flying, except you’re not going anywhere good. No sunny warm beach, or cresting waves, no european coffee, or family getaway. Just you, in your head, wondering how this is all going to turn out, sharing the same space as complete strangers but even worse because they are fucking sick and some really look it. I try very hard not to look or act sick. If you look good, you feel good, and if you smile and are nice, and your bag fits nicely under your seat, maybe the flight attendant will bring you an extra drink.