Close Encounter

Will tonight be my last night of the familiar roll out sleeper chair? Will there be no more early morning visits from eager young residents looking to poke and prod Jamie for no apparent benefit?

Could be, as we sit her in the first half of Jamie’s 6 of 6 IP chemo sessions.

After a few weeks off over the holidays followed by another weeks delay due to the flu, I questioned Jamie if she was committed to continuing on or if she felt that she had pushed far enough. Her speedy conquest of the flu should have given me a better insight into her resolve, as without a quiver she said she would finish the prescribed 6th round. So with the full support of Heidi, saying that it is this week or never, we prepared for our last IP trip.

I almost got cut from the roster, feeling the threat of the post Christmas bug lurking around the corner. I hastily tried to bolster myself Friday with a concoction of Porter, Wiskey and a full dose of Nyquil before bedtime. This appeared to tip the scales the wrong way as I awoke Saturday feeling weaker and foggy.

Applying my father’s own remedy, a little manual labor, things cleared up and I went to bed Saturday night without the aid of any “medicines”. I awoke to Jamie’s prodding in the morning refreshed and ready for the day, further charged by a long hot shower.

Much to Jamie’s dismay, I was in no particular rush to gather things up and leave, now being a veteran of this routine and having realized that our prompt arrival has often been followed by inordinate amounts of waiting in our room for the process to be initiated.

After a misguided trip to the office to get my laptop chord, then back home again to retrieve it from the front seat of my truck, we were pointed north. Traffic was light and it was just 9:30 as we pulled into the parking garage. Admitting had to work a bit to get us in, the week delay having cause a little confusion. But in the end Jamie left with another set of yellow duplicates giving various levels of consent for everything from being listed in the patient phone directory to whether of not you want a priest present if the call is from St. Peter.

Today moved along at a good pace, with Christine as official day chemo nurse, but familiar Jenni doing the port access while cheerfully gloating over her travel plans to Costa Rica next month. There are few nurses we don’t recognize and tonight’s nurse is Mary. I will disappointed if the shadow like Rodger doesn’t make a late night appearance as well, always acting as my alarm for a mid night snack.

My inaccurate anticipation of foul weather let me leave my bike behind, so today’s adventures were on foot and thus a much smaller radii than I normally roam. I started at Recycled Cycles along the ship canal, making two full laps around the shop ogling the bikes and revising my every increasing want list of gear.

I then headed up the hill towards the “Ave” finding myself standing in front of a Tudor style building marked as the University Inn. As I walked along the storefront and then to the rear corner, I saw an inviting stair to the basement of the building and clearly demarking the entrance to the pub shrewdly hidden below.

Thirsty from my shopping and walking I entered, finding the low ceilings and dark woodwork as authentic as anything in the old world. I ordered a pint and then asked the barkeep the location of the “head”. On my return trip I passed an older gent who as I then walked passed the TV, asked me if I could turn it on to the football game.

I returned from the bar with my glass and the remote, and soon his Gaelic accent had charmed me into joining him. Dr. Sweeney is an 80+ year old Catholic Scotsman who now splits his time between Seattle and his family estate near Glasgow. As conversation progressed another pint was in order as I received lessons on everything from the pay rates of a WWII Captain in the English army ( A mere $2 per day) to the current political state in South Africa and the middle east.

As most of you know my past encounters with his creed have been somewhat tumultuous as many a time have I been charmed by their hospitality only to find myself poisoned by excessive amounts of drink. Now in England I am fine, with their Norman heritage they are people of moderation, but the Gaelic tribes are much more devious. Such perils I have faced amongst the secretive guttural language of the Welsh, the jolly folk music of the Irish or the seemingly sensible charms of the Scot, lured in under friendly terms only to find myself sickened beyond reason by their alluring Whiskey, Scotch and beer.

I can’t say that I wasn’t warned, as the Christian and Muslim worlds were preparing to rip each other apart on September 11th 2001, I sat in the Anchor Inn in the un assuming Welsh village of Ruthin. A lone Englishman told me of the woes of mixing with such a crowd and the deep conspiracy which they heralded. My youthful ignorance and the extreme thrusts of my traveling companion Joel, led us to dismiss such warning and continue on well into the night. On the trip home all seemed jolly as we stumbled to Ms. Ransons’ welcoming inn.

But alas in the morning the Englishman’s prophecy came to be, as breakfast was as difficult to push down as the daylight was to face.

But today, my new acquaintance, allowing his medical ethics to overcome his ancestral instincts released me from his spell, emptying the last of his glass in a single gulp and wishing my wife the best, got up to leave unimpaired and at a reasonable hour of the afternoon.

So off I went fulfilling an earlier request for Starbucks. As I marched along, hot cup in hand, I first smelt and then spied the familiar spindle of meat that marks a gyro café. Sticking my head in the door I inquired as to when they close and got a prompt “1:30 AM”. Marking this as my evening dining spot I quickened my pace back to Jamie.

Enticed by the thought of a gyro, Jamie eagerly shunned the hospital fare and sent me off a few hours later to gather our gyros. Wanting to hasten my return and avoid a possible encounter with an Irishman, I drove the truck, finding parking close enough by on this Sunday eve. As I entered the shop I was reassured by the smell and basic configuration, meat, grill and three middle eastern men vigorously working in a tight space in perfect harmony.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the dark atmosphere of the place, with the political posters, and then gruff reception at the till. These were not the gay Greeks of Kirkland, selling a commercialized version of their local fare while daydreaming of their annual, and ever increasing in duration, winter vacation in their homeland.

No these were embittered men from the other side of the Mediterranean, angrily pushing meat and onions into a dry piece of flatbread only to monotonely call out “two regular gyros to go”. Now they weren’t terrible, as we both ate our gyros in their entirety back at ther room, but they weren’t fabulous either. And thus the truth comes forth, no matter where you are from, happy people make good sandwiches. Anger and bitterness will at best leave you full but unsatisfied.