no chocolate in the middle

In one of the waiting rooms (more about this soon) I overheard a man saying to his companion:  Good news.

Good news?

Yes.  He found a place to park near the hospital.  

Good news, I agreed; not what we wanted, but put enough stuff into the good news category and, hey, soon we have a good day.

Before leaving for the hospital, Rich receives call from physician at home.  Blood tests done on Monday, ready Tuesday but not yet sent to Sloan Kettering, show anemia and low protein count.

Not good.

Meet with neurosurgeon, view Rich's films, and while I cannot see much of anything that makes sense, Rich is disappointed in how much tumor remains which will be left to the uncertain power of radiation and chemotherapy.  Maybe he will need blood transfusion for anemia.  Eat more steak (tofu, anyone?) for protein.  

Not good.

Time to see radiation folks.  First receptionist says no, not this floor; when Rich produces his appointment sheet, it's still unconvincing.  Go right, left, don't take "B" or "C" elevator, but "R."  Next receptionist says no, not me, go across the hall; we do, next receptionist asks for his name and insurance (why?  this is all on file) and sends him back to receptionist #2 who slides a folder across the desk and says go left, right, straight, take elevator to another floor.

This, at least, was the right floor.  Then, Rich fills out more forms, we wait, we wait.

Then meet with radiation team's resident.  Then radiation team's head doctor.  Then radiation team's fellow.  Then radiation team's nurse.  No liquids tomorrow before myelogram, doctors say; clear liquids tomorrow, that's fine, says nurse.  Post-radiation, extremely bad sore throat for weeks, says doctor; may need narcotics to control.  Some chance of sore throat, just be careful of spicy foods, says nurse.

I'm starting to like the nurse.

Three hours after arriving, we're done.  Lunch?  We're too tired to know if we're hungry or not, but we eat, and realize we are.

"These are the good moments," I say.

Rich, finishing his three-cheese (protein!) lasagna, quickly comes back with a litany of next week's medical appointments, then back to New York for radiation, then chemotherapy, then...

"This moment," I say.  

It's good.  This is what we have to add up.

Coming back to our room, we realize the heat isn't working.  We are moved to another room.

Good enough.

We end the day with a big dinner (no solid food for Rich for at least 17 more hours), and we are given mints.

"Is there a chocolate in the middle?" I ask him as I unwrap the ball and pop it into my mouth.

He doesn't remember from the last time.

No, there isn't.  

Good enough.

It's adding up.

Candace