Dinner arrived at the stroke of 5; I usually eat around 7. I lifted the edge of the plate cover and glimpsed the rectanglur brown matter within: meatloaf, the ubiquitous institutional fare, floating on a sea of viscuous taupe. Having just completed my first serving of ara-c, I couldn't face the mystery lump coagulating on the plate. I replaced the cover and ate the roll. The lemon square was tasty.
If she's complaining about the food, the experience can't be so bad.
We arrived at the hospital at 8:30 am to have my PICC line inserted. That's where they'll infuse the poison that will kill leukemic cells. First they tried my left arm. No go. They settled for my right, and I was soon escorted to my single room on the 6th floor. My room is light and airy, with the bed facing the large window that peers out over houses, trees and a sluggish stream surrounded by ominous industrial contraptions. Love canal?
Marty stayed all day, and Mark spent about 4 or 5 hours visiting. I snoozed on and off as the ara-c dripped into my veins. If only I could remain unconscious throughout the next few months. I would have no awareness of the constant stream of meatloaf passing through my room.
It's 6:30, and the sun is sliding out of view. Day one can be checked off. It'll be interesting to see if there will be sleep here, in between the meds and blood draws and the constant beeping of machines.
Tomorrow I get a menu so I can avoid the tyranny of the meat wad sauced over in mud.