Ninenty-Five

Checked into Rhoads 7 at HUP last night at around 6:30pm, only to discover that the private room they had promised me was now a shared room. This unfortunately means that Jacq can’t stay with me, although the nursing and admissions office are doing their best to try to switch me given Jacq’s size and status. There is, however, a high census of patients who need to be in isolation so it might not happen this round. I miss Jacq terribly at night, but given her size, I am glad that she is at home in comfort cuddling with Otis.

My roommate on the other side of the curtain is a ninety-five year old hip-fracture patient who I learned served in World War II and was shot in the butt. I’ve also learned that he is nearly deaf, so when any family member, nurse, or doctor enters the room, I generally stick my fingers in my ears or go for a walk. Thank God he is not a snorer. His ninety-something-year-old wife and two daughters were here with him last night, and there was nothing sweeter than watching them say good night to one another, telling each other in their very, very, very old person’s voices (a slightly raised voice combined with what must be almost seventy years of love) to kiss the other’s hand given one was immobilized in bed, and the other in a wheelchair. I look forward to the day when I am a crusty and cranky old man who, hopefully not with a cracked hip, does the same to my lovely wife. By then maybe hearing loss will be reversible and I won’t have to yell or be yelled at to communicate with Jacq and others.

The chemo so far has been uneventful, and I expect to be out of here late afternoon Sunday. Monday will be my crash day, although I do hope to make an appearance at school for a few minutes to meet our new students who are taking a class I was supposed to teach.

Below is today’s chemo hat in honor of Humphrey Bogart, who was not born on this day, but on December 25, 1899.