12-14-2019

My monthly regimen of IG infusions are supposed to start this Monday (today is Saturday). Last night at around 9pm a big box arrived with the IG. It didn’t say that it had to be refrigerated and hopefully it doesn’t.

It arrived with it’s own infusion pole and a pack of instructions.

They ask you to have a lot of Tylenol around and a trove of Benadryl. Also, in caps it says to BE WELL HYDRATED.

I’m told that a nurse will arrive Mon. to do the IV and that hopefully it will last for the five days. It never did while I was in the hospital, but we’ll see.

Whether she stays around while the infusion takes place I really don’t know but at least I can stay in my palace and watch t.v. – maybe even eat.

I was thinking of a new super hero called INFUSION MAN about a guy who has hundreds of infusions and tubes sticking out of his body when he is called by the INFUSION MAN signal which is a squirt of liquid from one of the tubes in his arm.

And this procedure of five days will be done once a month for how long? I don’t know.

So INFUSION MAN is not so crazy because every 2nd month I go to Sinai Infusion center for Entyvio for the Crohn’s.

That only takes a half hour or so.

And my electric wheelchair is ready. After the first infusion cycle I’ll go and get it with a friend, getting there on my scooter, and having my friend drive the scooter back while I return in the wheelchair.

Under Manhattan Bridge

While writing this yesterday, B. (I don’t know why but I want to rename her Babs. I don’t imagine anyone ever named their daughter Babs, it’s just a name I’ve always wanted to use in a story. So Babs arrived and I do believe this entire entry may be parenthetical if I’m not careful. But Babs is a good friend and she is my female counterpart as far as food goes.

She walks into Trader Joes and buys all the stuff I’d buy. She brought the bad news that the rolled meat rolls (salami around some sort of cheese) is a holiday thing. Okay enough about Babs.)

If you ever want to stop by, bring things like chocolate covered pretzels and the best k-cup coffee you can find.

Now for the point of this entry, besides the news. I have come to the conclusion that no matter what anyone tells you, everyone has an interesting story, and this deserves it’s own post, but what the hell.

FRAN

The woman has been cleaning rooms in the Castle for 50 years, is a favorite. A lot of my laughs come from her. She looks like a serf from the middle ages. And she is filled with stories. Here is a good one.

While I’m in bed she comes into the room, sees that I’m still in bed. I explain that that day I had gone for an infusion of entyvio and sometimes I like to just crawl back into bed afterwards.

So I’m lying on my back staring at the stucco ceiling and listening to Fran talk to herself and clean up. Eventually, I begin to get interested in what she’s talking to herself about. I sit up in bed, and she brings me into her ramblings and tells me that she might be Jewish.

She is the least Jewish looking person, tho her ethnicity seems unknowable. And I never thought about it.

She tells me that she was adopted by a Jewish man. I ask her (back to food) what sort of food she remembers having as a kid and she tells me Latkas with apple sauce, and bagels and lox, etc. and I can’t believe this list of foods including gefilte fish is being enumerated by this woman.

Then she says that she always ate next to her father at the table. Her mother and sisters were Puerto Rican.

When she was 15 her father died from food poisoning. She was next to him and was eating the same food as he had and the medics couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t dead as well.

But that’s not the end. After the father dies, her stepmother decides that she is really black, and that she should try and darken her skin.

I am sitting up in bed now. How, I ask did she plan to do that?

She covered me with lard, Fran says, completely deadpan, and had me lie in the backyard (somewhere upstate NY) and fry.

She laughs, but I never did darken, and so no one in the family could figure out what I was.

I’m thinking of Fran, age 15, covered in lard, sizzling in the yard.

She loves chocolate and I give her some chocolate bars another friend sent me (Maria!) and she puts them in her pocket, asks if I need anything else, and I say no, just more stories like that.

Fran laughs and says she has a million of them. See you later, and thanks for the chocolate. She’s on her way downstairs to have the chocolate and smoke half a cigarette. She always smells of nicotine.

She knows I’m an ex-smoker and when we meet in the elevator I always ask her for a cigarette. She laughs with a twinkle in light blue eyes and says, you don’t mean that.

I confess that I don’t, I just enjoy the stinking smell. Yikes. What a way to end a post.

Published by Dave

My name is David Beckerman. I am a fine art photographer working in New York City. Or I was before I had two strokes. I now write from a Nursing Home. https://dave-beckerman.pixels.com

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