Almost every hospital visit has had its glitchs. Admitting can’t find my doctor’s orders and I have to wait until her office gets a hold of her. The printer in the blood lab has malfunctioned and I have to wait until they can print tube labels somewhere else. A nurse got bad info that I had been directed to a different waiting area and couldn’t find me there. After waiting for an hour in the usual place, I got up to “check.” The possibilities for delay seem infinite. Fortunately I’m used to the inefficient big bureaucracies of USC, and of hospitals in general, and figure it’s best to roll with the punches. Also fortunately, my rides home roll with the punches – thank goodness my cell phone actually works inside the clinic – and everyone stays calm.
So I don’t take for granted a day which goes smoothly, and I was grateful that today’s visit went like clock-work. I took getting set up in record time as a favorable sign that my IgM number would be “good.” As with musical performances, I’m not above some occasional superstition, icing on the cake of numerous and weighty prayers which I know are being offered on my behalf.
And today’s number was about as good as it gets, statistical-range-wise. Today’s number continued to fall right on the downward trend line, making the June number a bit of an aberration and alleviating my concern that perhaps the Rituxan had run its course. Well, to be more precise, it delayed the possibility of that concern for another three months.
This afternoon I’ve fought against going right to sleep. When I have done that in the past, that has only added to my circadian clock confusion over the next couple of days. Night is falling now, earlier and earlier; now I feel justified in caving in to the brain-fuzziness and body slo-mo.
P.S. Some of this summer’s crop of heritage tomatoes.