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| Hungarian Puli |
Monday we had our first school closings of the season due to the weather. I didn’t have to go anywhere that day so being snowed in didn’t ruin
any of my plans but I was keeping a close eye on the storm all same because I
needed good roads the following day to get to an appointment at the infusion
center and my niece was stuck at the Chicago airport, sleeping on a cot while
all the planes were grounded---she was on her way home from spending the holiday
in Texas. My other niece who had been up north at her favorite vacation destination
in Traverse City was also keeping an eye on the storm and was able to leave in
time to beat it before it hit southeastern Michigan and it’s a good thing she
did. The storm brought them 6-7 inches of wet, heavy snow where she lives causing electrical
outrages and backup generators were put into service.
Trust me, I won’t be getting my yearly bone infusion treatment
in 2019 because I’m skipping next fall’s scheduling and picking it up again the
following spring of 2020. This 2018 appointment was booked early last September at
my biannual with my internist and this was the first opening the infusion
center had available, and scheduling wait times are only going to get longer and longer as more baby
boomers start getting Reclast for their bones. I’ve had super good results with
the Reclast and hate the idea of letting a 5-6 month lapse without it but I hate the
stress even more of worrying about winter storms colliding with important appointments you
can’t cancel without it costing you a lot of money, more wait time and a repeat of your pre-infusion blood tests.
The day of my appointment I had allotted an hour to get
across town. The side roads were wickedly icy but the biggest problem I had was
all the street signs were covered with snow and unreadable otherwise the main
roads were good plus I got all the green lights and I got there in twenty
minutes. I always have my trusty notebook and pen with me so the extra time was
put to good use while I waited out in my car. I also had my Kindle with a new
book loaded on it. The infusion itself (an IV line in your arm) took an hour
this time when the same infusion last year took half that time. It seems I’ve reached
that “magic age,” the nurse said, when IV drips get slowed down because our
veins are old and might spring a leak like an old garden hose. Right or wrong,
that’s my translation for the medical explanation I was given for the change. I
was lucky to get through the infusion without having to pee. The more water you
drink in the two days before the procedure the better it goes and I was
hydrated so much my veins were plumped up and eager to carry the Reclast where it needed to go.
The room I was in had sixteen white La-Z-Boys full of
patients covered in white warming blankets and 6-7 nurses tending to our needs,
checking our lines and beeping machines and working at desks inside a glass cage.
Two chairs away the only black person in the place, a bored girl in her late
twenties, sat down shortly after I got there. They handed her a bag that at
first I thought was a barf bag that she breathed in for a good 15 minutes but
it turned out to be a collection bag for bacteria. She had the IV portal in
her arm but there was no line of liquids hooked up the entire time I was there.
They were waiting for whatever it is they do with bags full of bacteria in the
lab before starting her IV. I was glad she wasn’t right next to me because: 1)
I didn’t want Bacteria Girl to breathe her bacteria in my direction, and 2) I
was fascinated with her dreadlocks and I was afraid I’d be one of those rude
white people who’d ask if I could touch it. It reached down past the middle of
her back and she was constantly petting it as if she had one of those Hungarian
Puli dogs attached to her head.
In between me and Bacteria Girl was a woman who’d been there
with an IV in her arm for five hours and when I expressed shock at that the
nurse told me they have a few patients who spend eight hours parked in their
La-Z-Boys. Aside from that, there was very little conversation going on between
patients this time or the other times I’ve been there. Most people, I assume,
are there for far more serious treatments than I was and conversations seems
intrusive---lots of bald-headed women, a few bloated up men and a surprising number
of young women who obviously come there often enough to be well known to the
nurses.
Most of my hour was spent pretending to read on my Kindle
while surreptitiously people watching. I was afraid to use my notebook to write
about what I was seeing out of fear I’d drop the book on the floor where I
couldn’t reach it and someone else would pick it up and see the sentences I
wrote about a guy with a booger hanging from his nose. I don’t know why a nurse
didn’t hand him a tissue. I'm guessing they’re so focused on looking at IV
lines that they don’t look at faces as they cruise around the room. Whatever the
reason, Booger Man strengthen my resolve not to use the bathroom while I was
hooked up to the IV. You have to drag the IV pole with you and all I could
think about is how many germs were on those poles. Places like that always
bring out the germaphobic me. ©
