Stalled

9/7/07

“The American people, taking one with another. Constitute the most sniveling, poltroonish, ignominious mob of serfs and goose-steppers ever gathered under the flag in Christiandom since the end of the Middle Ages.”
-- H. L. Mencken
Prejudices, 1922

I wrote this yesterday while waiting for my infusion that never happened.

I’ve never really kept a diary or journal before on a consistent basis. The waiting room is ¾ full. Types? Today’s group looks like a snapshot of middle America. Mostly white folks. A guy in a striped Polo shirt on a cell phone, an older gentleman with a hearing aid reading “Road and Track” magazine, 3 church-lady types talking about knitting, a young tattooed father wearing a Megadeth t-shirt playing with his ailing son, a swollen man, covered with sores in a Michigan Wolverines shirt (already there are little maize and blue Chuckys who remember 9/1 but not 9/11). Suddenly the nurse called my name, “TESSIER”! She took my vitals: WT. 198, BP. 113/75, Temp. 98.6 (some of you may recall the song by Keith). Back to waiting.

They bring in a prisoner in a wheelchair. Hand and feet bound, he is shackled across the chest. Two corrections officers (Think storm troopers from the Waffen SS) accompany him. He looks sad. I wonder: where does he live in prison? What is it like to be sick in prison? One of my chemo nurses reported having a patient express her disgust that our tax dollars were funding the treatment of prisoners.

The chemo I’m waiting for was rescheduled from Tuesday. The Neulasta shot I received during last week’s ER visit precipitated such a rise in my liver enzymes as to necessitate the postponement of my infusion. Expecting my levels to decrease, I was then re-scheduled for today. So here I sit, writing. Or, there I sat, because I’m really here, at home, transcribing what I wrote there. It says, “What if. What if the complications from having hepatitis C precluded any future chemo sessions? And what if, since the cancer is no longer detectable, the therapy was terminated? A sort of miracle. Two treatments wipe out the cancer and the debilitating effects of chemo are banished! We can all dream.

What follows is as I wrote it.

Trick question? Can you tell me your birthday, Randall?

“Ooooooo….it’s good for you, that good old fashioned medicated goo.”

Are you supposed to just sit and keep writing until something appears on the page?
Hunter Thompson would copy the great writers and, I guess, receive some kind of artistic inspiration by osmosis. As a writing teacher, I was encouraged to have the students freewrite. Now that I’m sitting here doing it, I’m wondering, what for?

Asparagus & Lilacs
Lilacs & Cicadas
Nice words, but how to use them. Hmm….

Cool of the morning, in Fall
the asparagus is
gone and frost ices
the lavender; when
the buzz and hum of
the Cicada is lost in
the crow’s echo; when
the scarecrow points
to the moon of coming
winter,
when the back
to school shoppers
wait on their laundry in
tired coffee shops; when
the automobile
exit ramp view offers
a tea leaf reading of
cigarette butts.
Whose lipstick was
This? Is it the Wall Mart
Moms? The Costco dads?
The Ikea auntie?
The bathroom stall
Politician? Who smoked
These, and why can’t
Someone rock my
Stall? Perhaps it’s
Time for an electronic shoe,
Or sandal. A series
Of lights on the sides
Would indicate my
Stall status: brown blinking
To yellow
Would signal my happiness
With the status quo.
Green to blue would flash my
Anxious, longing consent. Red
Would mean, of course,
That undercover blowjob
Busters are on the
Prowl. All beware.

Forget the infusion. The nurse just informed me that my liver enzymes are still too high.

Toodleedoo, gotta go! I’m off to an Ultrasound.