Something atavistic rumbles through


This is the room, I could describe it at length, even ad nauseum if I cared to which I do not, where I stay when I stay here at the hospital. The windows you see over there, they look like doors or nearly so because they used to be doors and pushed out out onto the fourth-floor balcony.

For the tuberculosis patients who stayed here.

This is an old hospital by Houston standards, by building standards, by health standards, and I secretly suspect, not without reasons, I have my reasons, some of the shadows to be originals. And o sure, you’re right, I admit it, coming in here to visit me (and thank you, thank you, of course, as always), you passed through and I’ll even say traversed entire new wings decked out in art deco or betraying bends from the nineteen sixties.

I saw those, too. Fleetingly I saw those, as I was leaving to go back home in May. My father pushed my wheelchair through a hall of tiny brown tiles. But I do not spend my time here in public entry ways and I do not get chemo in the waiting room. This is where I sleep when I sleep inside the hospital and here, something atavistic rumbles through.

I make the most of it. My time here. I’m finding music on my phone – Pere Ubu’s new one’s great. I’m renting movies from amazon – The Eternal, Hereditary, and Beasts of the Southern Wild. I’m telling jokes. I’m making calls. I’m doing frivolous things. And despite the eye and the legs and the nurses and the tubes, it would be easy, no, not easy, that’s not right, it would be possible to at least pretend and it is easy to forget, sometimes, for a moment, at any rate, just why it is I’m here.

Sunbathing in reflections off Cthlulu’s big old eye.

But a doctor comes to the door now, an oncologist, almost in my way, really, what with all the things I’m busy with here and I take my ear buds out of my ears to give her a listen. Lots of flipping of papers and something about contrast MRI results and new spots and “your brain.”

I remember why it is I’m here, now I do, and I’ve been a million miles from contrast MRI results and new spots and “your brain”

This ain’t a party after all. I scrunch myself down into old shadows.

Comments

  1. New spots on the brain isn't what you were hoping to hear. I can't imagine the music, films or joking would ever be enough to block out the reason why you are in hospital. Praying for you.

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    1. Hey there! I was starting to feel like it was all behind me. Apparently it's not. I thank you for the prayers.

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  2. Oh dear, this sounds ominous. I want to poke Cthlulu in the eye and say "Leave Harry alone! Unwrap him from your tentacles!" Be it so.

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    1. I'm not dwelling on it, but it does seem bad, that there's new stuff forming while I'm on chemo. I'm going to keep doing my thing unless and until I can't anymore, though.

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  3. Fairmont Acute Rehab facility in San Leandro was originally a TB sanatorium, all stucco and Spanish tile roofs and the fact that it has been repurposed is palpable inside and out.
    I owe the life I get to live to the efforts of the people who work there.
    May the news you get from the medical team cease to be alarming and go back to the drudgery that was making you impatient not long ago.

    -Doug in Oakland

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    1. Thanks, Doug. I just thought I was sort of out of the woods. My body hates me, and some days, I don' blame it.

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    2. Here's video from a show I got to see last weekend at Sonoma State's Green Music Center. Beautiful venue, and you could tell you were in "Northern" California by the folks hippie dancing on the lawn to a mandolin and guitar arrangement of a Bach piece. The whole show will go online in September as an installment of Chris Thile's "Live From Here" series. I hope you like it:

      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mc7DUdkIDY0

      -Doug in Oakland

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  4. You should have kept your ear buds in. I'm so sorry it wasn't better news Harry. Fingers crossed it will be better next time one of them drops in on you. Hopeful and healing thoughts headed your way from Ontario.

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    1. Thank you. I had a good day today. When I spend too much time in the hospital, I feel like I lose the progress I've made. I'm sort of walking again today, although it's probably hilarious to watch.

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  5. "Sunbathing in reflections off Cthlulu’s big old eye." sounds, somehow, comforting. To me, anyway. I'll remember those words for a long time to come. Hope You find Comfort when you can.

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    1. Thanks. I was almost to the point where I was going to be able to start writing about other things and then this happened.

      I'm going to start writing about other things.

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  6. Hospitals suck. Never thought much about it until my various stays last year. Take care my friend.

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    1. I'm back home today and my attitude is much more positive!

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  7. Something about hospital hallways. Sometimes they are bustling, then there are the rather dismal ones. What I hate about staying there is that I can never be alone, have quiet. Glad to hear you are going home.

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    1. It's weird, even now, to have people walking in on me at all times of night. Half of the time, it's a nurse with a nurse trainee in tow, so while half asleep, I get to hear the specifics of what hey come in to do at 3:30 in the morning...

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  8. It most be the week (month) of walking backwards. I haven't been doing too hot either. New things have come up, my bones aren't being nice, I need help putting on and taking off my pants (thank goodness my Piano Man doesn't mind helping *cough*). It's infuriating, when we have to step back, isn't it? I hope we can step forward soon. And that those steps take us farther ahead (and closer to frivolous things).

    Sending you hugs. Because I'm a frivolous huger. And hugging doesn't hurt (too much).

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    1. Today is better than yesterday, but this week has been impossible and I haven't had food in days. Wait, not impossible, because here I am typing and I should appreciate every word, each taking me closer to my last.

      I hope next week is better for you. I'll bet it will be. That's how this works.

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  9. I too am sorry and your news; I am glad to see there is Love here for you.

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  10. I sincerely hope you're feeling a little better today and that you've been able to eat something that tasted delicious. Your writing continues to be beautiful and complex, regardless.

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    1. Things are not good. I believe this blog is likely over.

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  11. Thinking of you and hoping you are feeling better.

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    1. Thanks. It's been a fight. The fght is coming to an end quickly.

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  12. Just stopping by to say hi and hope you are doing well.

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  13. I just discovered your Blog and am so sorry I arrived at such a difficult time. I am so enjoying reading thru the archived Posts, I can relate and find a connection to some of the topics. The 'left behind' Post being the one just read... Blogicide being something I often grieve over, and most especially if I'm left hanging, not knowing the outcome of the creator of it, of whom I've grown to feel I know and have developed a sort of relationship with in The Land Of Blog Community. I've Blogged for a Decade, after a Grandchild told me nobody was writing letters anymore and Gramma why don't you just Blog... so he set it up for me... and I now have become One with my Blog. At first few who really knew me had any inkling I Blogged, or probably wouldn't have read it and I'm not sure I didn't actually prefer that anonymity here. Now I am transparent about it, it seemed less like leading a double life! *LOL* I will now continue with the Archive read, appreciating finding another Blog I truly can thoroughly enjoy. Thank You!

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