So my surgery on the Thursday before Thanksgiving went fine, and the following day, Friday, I spent preparing for my trip to Michigan on Saturday. Most of Friday was Packing, Phase One: chatting on Facebook.
As the afternoon began to wane, it seemed to be time to move on to Packing, Phase Two, which involves the actual placing of items into a suitcase. At that point, I was chatting with my old and dear friend D., whom I met in music school. He had recently lost two friends, both dead suddenly and far too young, and was feeling the effects of that. “DON’T DIE!!” he wrote me.
I told him that I would certainly die, but probably not during our chat. Then, while walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water as fortification for packing, I noticed a sharp pain issuing from my left arm, and pulled up my sweater sleeve to see an ominous red streak crawling up a vein. Ironic to think that if I’d remained online for 24 hours telling D. how I was not going to die while chatting, maybe I could have managed to die while chatting.
I called Dr. M., and then it occurred to me to call Tom, my tall handsome ex-boyfriend/best friend/upstairs neighbor. He’s a special ed teacher—when it comes to romance, I find it is best for me to stick to those in the helping professions: teachers, nurses, masseurs, etc.—and I thought he might have some sort of protocol established for the sighting of a red streak.
I could hear that Tom was chatting with a friend in town for the weekend and didn’t want to interrupt. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be a terrible shame if I died with helpful advice potentially so close at hand? I went ahead and called, but left a very low-key message, saying I sort of had sort of a first aid question, but it wasn’t anything urgent or anything.
Then Dr. M. called and agreed it sounded like the place where the I.V. had been put in was infected. She said she’d call Walgreens with a prescription for antibiotics and that I should also take an aspirin so I didn’t get a blood clot on the plane.
Just after we hung up, Tom, bless his heart, called me back and reminded me that his pal has some expertise in this area—should they come down and perform an examination? I said I’d talked to my doctor, so there was no need for that, though it was a very nice offer. The next thing I heard was the click of the phone as Tom hung up on me, and then a knock at my door.
The friend agreed that treatment was a good idea and suggested that they walk to Walgreens with me! How incredibly sweet of her that was. I insisted that they get on with their evening, and took a cab to Walgreens, where I felt first like a guy in a movie who’s been bitten by a snake and is waiting for the poison to reach his heart, and then like a junkie, as I tore the bag open right outside the store so I could take the first pill as soon as possible. I was worried that I would end up having to cancel my trip east.
At some point, I had given my mother a call to let her know what was going on and she was extremely concerned and immediately asked, “This isn’t something I’m going to catch, is it? You gotta look out for number one.”
In the morning, the streak was no better, but also no worse, and off I went to Michigan. After 47 years, I had finally accrued enough infrequent flyer miles for a single round-trip upgrade to first class. I found the people there strangely aloof. Try as I might to interest them in my little problems and opinions, they were wedded to their laptops, but I did appreciate the bigger space and the dual armrests between seats.
When we boarded, there was already a bottle of water at each seat, and the second we were seated, there was someone ready to bring further refreshments. Also, there was a little display showing if there was someone in the bathroom or not. But, on the whole, I think where I usually sit is OK: more chatting.
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