My Bout with Cancer – Part Two

My hair, where I have hair—a patch like a medieval monk’s tonsorial—was a madly matted yellow mess. The yellow comes from medicine during surgery and medicine infused tape. When I was finally able to take a shower, that got much of the yellow out. Now I can wash my head and get rid of some of the dried blood. After the new staples in my head come out, I can shave it. Looking forward to that.

I get shooting pains in my head that last only a few seconds. Sometimes when the pain hits, I involuntarily say “Ooh eee, ooh ah ah…” and then I think of the lyrics in the 1958 song “Witch Doctor” by David Seville (later covered on the album, Alvin and The Chipmunks): “Ooo eee ooo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang.  My friend the witch doctor he taught me what to say . . . ”

The next day and I had an appointment with the surgeon’s P.A. in Issaquah. Her name is Rebecca, and we like her. She’s friendly, kind, and competent. Our friend Cailin drove us up. At the check-in window on the third floor, where we’ve now been four or five times, the woman behind the Plexiglass said, “You don’t have an appointment today.” She looked at her computer and told us, “Your appointment is on Monday, March 13^th.”

“This is the second time you’ve done this,” I shouted at her, and everybody in the waiting room took notice. “We drove all the way up from Olympia.” I was pissed. I was shaking. I was prepared to stay all night if that was what it was going to take. Gabi said, “Calm down.” She knows what I can be like when I lose my temper. She added, “This isn’t going to help, Alec,” and I replied, “How do you know!”

She showed them the email that said I had an appointment there and at that time. It didn’t change anything, and there wasn’t even an apology.

We admitted that the appointment mix-up the first time in their Bellevue office, might have been our mistake. But this time it was their fault, and there was nothing we could do but turn around and go back home. At least we had a pleasant conversation with the couple in the elevator. One of them had the same operation I had but was not quite as far along in her treatment.

Back in the car, it was cold, gray and rainy. We had not gone more than twenty miles before Google told us there was a slowdown on I-5 and that if we took such-and-such route we could save six minutes. Well, such-and-such route took us to some bleak and surrealistic intersection at the Port of Tacoma where we were stuck for what seemed like an hour—unable to move or turn around and wouldn’t know where to go if we could. And I had to pee. Really, really, really badly.

Oh boy! I saw a porta potty on the side of the road where we had come to a standstill. But the porta potty was padlocked. Damn it all.

And our gas gauge was down to less than a quarter tank and we were stuck idling at this corner wondering if the cars in front of us were ever going to move. We finally got moving and were able to fill up at a service station in Hawks Prairie.

At last we got home, and I squirmed and wiggled and danced at the door while Gabi fit the key in the keyhole. And the floodgates opened, and I rushed to the bathroom, stopping along the way to grab fresh underwear and pants.