Thursday, January 13, 2011
Good News, Bad News
The good news is, there is a treadmill.
The bad news is, I don’t get to run outside for a month.
The good news is, my room has windows all along one wall.
The bad news is, my view is the side of the next building.
The good news is, this isn’t my eventual room.
The bad news is, my next room has a similar view.
The good news is, I can wear pajamas all day.
The bad news is, I could get used to that.
The good news is, next year’s end-of-year letter won’t sound like a rerun of
the last few.
The bad news is, saying “end-of-year” feels like tempting fate.
The good news is, plenty of time to read or draw.
The bad news is, plenty of time to worry.
The good news is, I have great support from family, friends, and work.
The bad news is, I can’t think of any clever downside to go on this line.
The good news is, I feel perfectly healthy.
The bad news is, the bone marrow biopsy says I’m not.
The good news is, I’m in one of the best facilities in the world for treating
AML.
The bad news is, I’m being treated for AML.
The good news is, there is a treadmill.
Good News, Bad News
The good news is, there is a treadmill.
The bad news is, I don’t get to run outside for a month.
The good news is, my room has windows all along one wall.
The bad news is, my view is the side of the next building.
The good news is, this isn’t my eventual room.
The bad news is, my next room has a similar view.
The good news is, I can wear pajamas all day.
The bad news is, I could get used to that.
The good news is, next year’s end-of-year letter won’t sound like a rerun of
the last few.
The bad news is, saying “end-of-year” feels like tempting fate.
The good news is, plenty of time to read or draw.
The bad news is, plenty of time to worry.
The good news is, I have great support from family, friends, and work.
The bad news is, I can’t think of any clever downside to go on this line.
The good news is, I feel perfectly healthy.
The bad news is, the bone marrow biopsy says I’m not.
The good news is, I’m in one of the best facilities in the world for treating
AML.
The bad news is, I’m being treated for AML.
The good news is, there is a treadmill.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Suggestive Clothing
Those who know me will not be surprised to learn that I value practical and
clean much more than neat. Jan occasionally has to send me back upstairs
to avoid going to work sporting my terrorist look or my “what two-year-old
dressed you?” look. I don’t believe that clothes make the man—our acts define
us, not our clothes.
However, I am noticing the power of what I wear to affect how I feel about
myself, which can affect how I act. When I was “wearing” a wheelchair, I
started thinking like an invalid and briefly forgot I could walk. This morning,
wearing a hospital gown and lying in a hospital bed, when some doctors left
my light on after their 7 a.m. visit, I was ready to page the nurse to turn it
off before remembering that four steps is still well within my abilities. When
I wear pajamas, I feel less feeble than when I wear the hospital gown, and
when I wear running clothes, I feel pretty normal.
Yesterday, free of Jan’s fashion guidance, I did a corridor walk in what I
considered a practical if mismatched ensemble: gown, socks, running shoes.
The running shoes made a huge difference in how I felt walking, compared to
the no-skid socks I had worn before. Sick people walk corridor halls with their
IV poles while wearing socks. With my running shoes, I’m a healthy guy with
leukemia. The gown is practical because it’s the only thing that the hospital
will wash, and I’m saving my running shorts for working out on the treadmill.
It was a good walk. In the shoes, I can go faster, and I can kick Ivy’s feet
without adding to my toe bruise collection. Occasionally I felt an unaccustomed
breeze, which made me wonder if I was totally wrapped up. But
I checked a couple of times, and I had the gown tied up as tightly as it gets.
Not that I minded the sensation—I was thinking that maybe the Scots have a
good idea with the kilts.
When I got back to my room, a nurse told me that she brought me an extra
gown.
Me: What for?
Nurse: To wear like a cape over your first gown, on your walks.
Me: Why?
Nurse: I heard you were flashing.
Sorry, Jan!
Suggestive Clothing
Those who know me will not be surprised to learn that I value practical and
clean much more than neat. Jan occasionally has to send me back upstairs
to avoid going to work sporting my terrorist look or my “what two-year-old
dressed you?” look. I don’t believe that clothes make the man—our acts define
us, not our clothes.
However, I am noticing the power of what I wear to affect how I feel about
myself, which can affect how I act. When I was “wearing” a wheelchair, I
started thinking like an invalid and briefly forgot I could walk. This morning,
wearing a hospital gown and lying in a hospital bed, when some doctors left
my light on after their 7 a.m. visit, I was ready to page the nurse to turn it
off before remembering that four steps is still well within my abilities. When
I wear pajamas, I feel less feeble than when I wear the hospital gown, and
when I wear running clothes, I feel pretty normal.
Yesterday, free of Jan’s fashion guidance, I did a corridor walk in what I
considered a practical if mismatched ensemble: gown, socks, running shoes.
The running shoes made a huge difference in how I felt walking, compared to
the no-skid socks I had worn before. Sick people walk corridor halls with their
IV poles while wearing socks. With my running shoes, I’m a healthy guy with
leukemia. The gown is practical because it’s the only thing that the hospital
will wash, and I’m saving my running shorts for working out on the treadmill.
It was a good walk. In the shoes, I can go faster, and I can kick Ivy’s feet
without adding to my toe bruise collection. Occasionally I felt an unaccustomed
breeze, which made me wonder if I was totally wrapped up. But
I checked a couple of times, and I had the gown tied up as tightly as it gets.
Not that I minded the sensation—I was thinking that maybe the Scots have a
good idea with the kilts.
When I got back to my room, a nurse told me that she brought me an extra
gown.
Me: What for?
Nurse: To wear like a cape over your first gown, on your walks.
Me: Why?
Nurse: I heard you were flashing.
Sorry, Jan!