Yesterday we made the rainy drive to the KU cancer center in Kansas City.  As I've said, it's an attractive facility, as cheerful as a cancer center can be.  For those of you who used H & R Block (or the procrastinators who are planning to) for tax preparations, it is the Bloch family (they changed the last letter for business) who not only were the primary donors to the new wing of the Nelson-Atkins, but gave $30M for the cancer center, so thanks for your contribution.  As you get off the elevators from the parking garage to the main floor, there's Missys' [sic] Boutique.  It's always open, but we've never seen any customers.  We were tempted yesterday, but the idea of souvenirs from a cancer center seemed finally too bizarre.  There's an information center and a free library (limit two) in case you've forgotten reading material. 

First, a phlebotogist (his name tag designation) drew blood, and then we had a forty-minute wait.  Reading matter wasn't necessary, as the waiting room was soon enlivened by a character straight from Flannery O'Connor and her husband, who wisely said nothing and buried his head in a magazine.  The wife had no-nonsense, short, steel gray hair, steel rimmed glasses, and either a prominent but very saggy bosom (Mohamed's opinion) or a large stomach (my judgment).  She began talking immediately to anyone who would listen, cataloguing her ailments and treatments in graphic detail.  Almost everyone in her section of the waiting room (and it became her section the moment she arrived) tried to stare at the floor, but she was undeterred.  She finally settled on one elderly woman, asking personal questions:  "And just how many toes did you lose?"  The woman answered very softly, but to no avail since her answers were repeated.  "Four of them, eh?  I've had trouble with my feet ever since I was a child," and with that she segued into yet another of her problems.  The many disappointments with her treatment arose from greedy doctors who treat Medicare patients more carelessly than people with supplemental insurance.  This analysis led to a list of the sales tax rates in every county in the metro area on both the Kansas and Missouri sides, the government taking her money but giving her unequal treatment.  In my mind, I ticked off the "Santorum supporter" box but couldn't stop listening.  The forty minutes passed quickly; she was still talking when we were called to the appointment with the oncologist.

All the bloodwork was normal, and there haven't been any new problems.  I got an A for the tests.  Dr. Heins was pleased with everything she saw, and the next (and full series) tests were scheduled for the last day of April, when I'll also get the shot to strengthen the bones which has now been reduced to once every three months.  Sometimes doctors start sentences that they probably wish they hadn't.  Every morning I take a pain killer--just one a day.  I needed the prescription refilled, and the doctor said I could take four to six a day.  I said, "But aren't they awfully addictive?"  And the doctor began her reply and then couldn't stop it with, "Well, in your situation we don't really have to worry about long-term addiction."  I seem to have changed from my long ago and often chemically altered hippie years.  I love to tell stories about those days, and I often include a line like "I never met a chemical I didn't like."  Age (and the number of pills I take) seems to have changed that attitude.  Plus, maybe I'm just proud of toughing it out, especially when the "it" is more discomfort than real pain.

The only down note was that I've lost six pounds since the last visit.  I don't see it myself.  But Mohamed is worried and will redouble his efforts at increasing my caloric intake.  It certainly makes it easy to justify eating whatever I want--and that's a good thing.