the daily routine

Consisting of:

Physical therapy at the pool (Deborah). So many kind folks at that pool. Today a woman I’ve never met cheered me on the progress I’ve made in walking since she joined the pool in February.

Haircut (Deborah) by excellent former library colleague turned talented stylist. Trade Oaxaca tips with her outgoing client.

Talk to the OHSU oncologist on the phone. Discover that they never had enough tissue to do the genetic tests we’ve been waiting 2 months for. Add “get another biopsy?” to the to-do list.

Eat early so Val can have an empty stomach on which to inflict the barium shake.

Shower carefully (Val) so as not to aggravate or soak recent surgical incisions.

Feel queasy, achy and tired (Val) and tired and footsore (me).

Drink barium shake (Val) and feel queasier. (My role: tell stories to take Val’s mind off this. Also drive us to hospital.)

At hospital: Borrow wheelchair because we left mine at home. (Try to hold our breath to avoid the trauma-smell in the parking garage elevator lobby, but we’re moving too slowly.) Stagger around the various hospital levels, taking turns sitting in the chair to rest. Wait in line to get CT scan (after clarifying for the staff, as usual, that I — in the wheelchair — am not the patient). Wait in line to purchase preloaded shots of blood thinner, of which they only have three on hand, but they chirpily invite us to come back in three days for the rest, something I would pay good money not to have to do. Wait in line to have Val’s weekly pre-chemo blood draw. Pass the time playing the oncology waiting room alphabet game, which has exceedingly loose rules. (A is for our Attitude this morning. B is for Barium, blecch. C is for the smell of the Cafeteria rising up from the atrium… M is for, um, for, um… M is for Close enough under the circumstances. Yeah. N is for Eavesdropping on that lady laughing on her cell phone…) Take advantage of the privacy of the blood draw room for Val to self-administer the fun new daily shot to her stomach. Get hugged by the lovely phlebotomist, Sandra, who’s been sweet to us for four years. Trundle purchases, wheelchair, and variously sore selves back to the car, Val still tenaciously trying not to puke.

Home: has been gloriously, freshly, thoroughly cleaned by the dervish Liz. Collapse on the couch. Cook up a little simple rice for dinner. Cuddle the dog. Watch the first 20 minutes of Finding Nemo. Walk the dog (Val) in the fresh night air with Liz. Return to couch. Check Facebook statuses lazily on our phones. Cry. Laugh. Cough. Eat some more rice.

Fold laundry. Unload dishwasher.

Fin.

D