5/ 12/ 14
Location, location, location. That's what they say right? As to where you want to set up shop, as to where you want to rest your head at the end of a hard day, as to where you want to end-up when you stumble and fall in the men's room. I can speak to the first two as well as most, I imagine; however, I can't imagine not being in the minority of those who can speak to the third.
Location: high traffic area, safe part of town.
Location: low traffic area, safe part of town.
Location: low traffic area.
Following a 7:30 MRI in the old wing, my wife and I make the 10 minute, often grueling (for her) trek to the nearer (to civilization) wing where my neuro- oncologist holds court on the 5th floor; this for an 8:30 appointment to interpret the opalescent images ne'er-do-welling inside my skull. My MRI had gone smoothly and quickly. We were making great time. No rush.
We exited the elevator and I requested a pitstop at the immediately adjacent to themen's room. I put the brakes on my wheels, grunt myself to my feet, look both ways (now your basic pedestrian), and take up my cane for what should be a relatively pedestrian visit to the john.
To make a short story shorter: I did what I came to do, about-faced, and proceeded toward the sink to wash my hands as good citizens will and then, as bad walkers are prone, I tripped on my lagging left foot. It was one of those slow-motion instances. As I went floor-ward, I sensed mine was an exquisite swan-fall, imbued with grace and elegance. As the left side of my face, obeying all applicable laws of physics, caromed off sink's countertop, I was disabused of any such sense.
Wince but don't weep, empathic reader. I came to rest in a low traffic area--a location which is theoretically the most prime of all the men's room real-estate . . . floor-wise.
Well Hi Dee Ho and Lah Tee Da
Giggle but don't guffaw, peanut gallery. Low traffic area. Pretty exclusive neighborhood.
Beyond that . . . a bonus. A record breaker-- if not to be entered into Guinness' book (they've been contacted) then logged in my personal annals--shortest ambulance ride, as the crow flies . . . about a hundred yards away.
So short was the distance I needed to travel that just as soon as I had been boarded, gurneyed, hoisted, situated, oxygenated, re-quizzed, transported, admitted, braceleted, transferred, asleep, back-to- sleep, discharged, wheeled, elevated, recepted, checked-in . . . whiz bang, toot sweet . . . I was meeting with my doctor not four hours later in our usual location.
According to my doctor and MRI images, there were no new tumors nor old ones asking for elbow room; and even though my list of expressed clinical concerns (worsening confusion, memory, vision, etc.) was pretty exhaustive (and it occurs to me just now that a particularly prominent issue went unmentioned--my very recent face-splonk and subsequent brief hospital stay) my Avastin and chemo course will continue and, if it maintains its current success, conceivably be suspended after two more rounds. At which point, we'll go back to the medicate and monitor dance-- a turn for the pleasanter considering my present yarksome state.