Return to train station. It's now after twelve. Rich's appointment at MSK is at 1:30, but the earliest we can now arrive is 2:30. He calls. It's okay, they will see us whenever we arrive.
Announcement. "Train 62 will be arriving 19 minutes late." Another announcement, then another, each pushing back the time. Others leave. Fifty minutes late, the train arrives.
I need the bathroom. The door is stuck. I finally flag the conductor. His key gets stuck, too. Finally, door opens, and I'm careful not to close it.
But from here on, the train is express. We eat our batarde, our cheddar cheese, and drink our water.
We arrive by three. I phone a friend and say our planned meeting that afternoon is off. Maybe next visit.
We watch the others waiting with us, and talk to some. She's on her sixth version of chemotherapy. He is trying to rest on the sofa while his wife and mother and three young sons share a pizza.
Looks good, Rich and I agree. We're hungry. We drink the waiting room's coffee and eat its pretzels.
Good news. This is what matters. Almost surely not neurological, we are assured. Rich's leg pains may be sign of blood clot, so will have scan this week to rule out. Otherwise, just another body ache.
Maybe.
We buy two slices of pizza and eat on the train.
By nine we're "home," in front of a log-filled fireplace, drinking beer, and snow is falling.
That night, we sleep deeply. A good day.
Candace
