Tuesday, July 9, 2024

     Being in the infusion center is like being in the middle of a science fiction dystopian novel. This is the life of these targeted older folks, mostly women, including me. We have become compliant, Ok, just do what you have to do and let me out of here.  The lucky ones sit in recliners by the windows attached to dripping chemicals.  They sleep or read. Machines beep. Staff is hurried and distracted. The unlucky ones are in a small claustrophobic room waiting. And then it is over and the tall man returns me to my real life at home.

     The tall man does garbage duty and the bins are on the curb waiting to be picked up.

     I watch dumb TV and wait to feel normal again.

     My local daughter comes by and tells me about her day.  I sit in my recliner and then move to the couch. She checks the potted plants on the deck. A neighbor comes by and asks for old cardboard boxes.  I have two, and I give her some licorice as a bonus. By bedtime I am back to my home world until next month.