Another Update

The pretty oncologist cried "yay!" and lifted both hands in triumph after I confirmed that I'd completed the oral hormone treatment. This rarity lifted the corner of my lips in a skeptical smile.

Now I had been having a wee bit of trouble with dry lips in recent years. The symptoms first emerged about two years ago while I was traveling abroad. My lips became dry and small cracks appeared at both ends, a condition which was an annoying irritation. My GP suspected a viral infection and prescribed a dose of cream with trace amount of steroid which was a temporary solution. The symptoms kept recurring. Now this was of some concern vis-à-vis my medical history.

So I consulted her and why not? My GP thought it was a viral infection, the professors at the gastroenterology clinic blamed it on food allergy but what did she think?

"Unlikely. We do not have any record of dry lips in connection with big-C. This symptom is more of a general ailment attributed to lack of vitamins or poor diet. Would you like me to refer you to a nutritionist?"

I did not take up her offer. A nutritionist would have made my life utterly miserable.

Having asked around, I found that the dry lip condition was a common ailment and solutions are a dime a dozen, as such:

• application of aloe-vera on dry lips
• honey
• Vaseline
• lip balm
• coconut oil

The last two solution worked for me, for now.

The bubbly oncologist gave me an appointment in 6 months time and if that examination turn out to be as routine as this, future appointments would be scheduled on a yearly basis. After gifting her with some of my handmade soaps and a handmade bag, I proceeded to the sour woman manning the reception in order to fix my next appointment.

Now if there's anything nice to be said about the administrative staff at the hospital, it's .... that there's nothing nice to be said about them. Having to face unhappy patients all year round must have turned them into bundles of dour faces.

A young girl in her early twenties on a wheel chair appeared behind me and in a loud voice asked the reception for direction to the South Tower of the hospital. They ignored her. Twice. 

I was known for getting myself lost and disoriented most of the time but I felt an obligation to help the young girl so I gave her the direction as best I could. After all, I'd been there like ... just under a million times, in the 6 years that I had frequented this hospital.

The girl wheeled herself out of the oncology clinic without drawing another breath from those at reception. Classic civil service, I thought as I watched the wheel chair thoughtfully. Another patient who was seated at the waiting area came to me to ask if the wheelchair had asked about the South Tower. She ran after the wheelchair to deliver her directions, which differed painfully from mine.

I went after the wheel chair and as the girl looked exhausted, offered to push her to the South Tower. It was a good thing that the other patient gave us fresh direction for I would have wheeled the poor wheel chair to the wrong tower.

In any case, following the new direction, we finally reached the South Tower. I was feeling a little tired from the pushing for I had with me a rather heavy tote bag filled with files and documents the oncologist might need.

At the entrance to the South Tower, I was worried about the flight of stairs going down and although I'd only been to this tower like .... just under a million times, I could not remember if there was a ramp for the wheel chair.

When the ramp revealed itself, I was relieved. Suddenly, the girl held up her hands to stop the wheels of the chair. I was puzzled.

"This is the South Tower",  I said looking down at her.

"I don't want to go to the South Tower", she answered as she looked up at me with a no-I-don't-want-to-go-to-the-south-tower-what's-this-to-you look.

She wheeled herself away as I watched her go. I walked through the South Tower towards the entrance where I hailed and popped into a waiting taxi. The elderly man behind the wheels took a while to maneuver the taxi through heavy traffic out of the hospital.  As the vehicle left the hospital exit, the good man asked where I was heading.

Poor man had been waiting for me to tell him my destination while I mused over the mystery of the wheel chair. Like it's the thing to do when you're perplexed, I shared my story with the taxi driver, who listened attentively.

"Maybe she's not in her right mind," he speculated.

And with that, my perspectives settled at all the right places and the business of living prevailed.

Reaching home, the taxi driver dropped me two doors away so I walked leisurely towards my side gate, looking up with some apprehension at the darkening sky. An angry thunderstorm looked imminent.

As I fumbled with the keys at the Judas gate, I saw her approaching me, groggy and heavy with sleep. She was ready to snap at him or her who dared disrupt her slumber. She walked toward me, yawn some, looked baffled and confused. Finally recognition hit her and she went into a frenzy of excited yelps and whines.

Dogs are always in their right mind, I thought as I patted the head which looked up at me with such unpretentious fondness.