Doctor dance

I've had six of my 10 radiation treatments so far -- still loathing the brain jolt and the instant metal smell -- and as usual I'm getting different stories from different doctors. I told my medical oncologist, Dr. Lee, that the brain doctor said my head tumour may respond quickly to treatment because it grew so quickly. Dr. Lee looked very doubtful. But Dr. Lee said my hearing should return; the radiation doctors said it wouldn't. She walked in yesterday and asked if it was getting better, in fact, even though Dr. Noguff says that, like last time, I wouldn't feel any positive effects of the treatment until a couple of weeks after it ends. Dr. Lee says she wants to send me home on Monday and that I shouldn't have much fatigue. Dr. Noguff says I will be very fatigued. Dr. Lee says that she can get me more home-care help through the palliative unit. The social worker says that can only happen if Dr. Lee is willing to state a prognosis, which she seems to be avoiding, maybe because she doesn't want to scare me. Some people are telling me all my hair will fall out (I had it buzzed off the other day). Some say only parts of it will. Some say hair loss might be permanent. It was ever thus.

I'm glad I'm in the hospital, though, as boring as it can be. The ambulance transfer for the treatments at the other hospital goes very quickly and smoothly -- much more smoothly than travelling from my house every day for 10 days would have done. They just slide me on a gurney, slip me in the ambulance (while I get 10 seconds of precious, smelly Toronto air on my face -- it's amazing how much I miss the feel of moving air), drive round the corner, slip me in for treatment (because the ambulance attendants are waiting, the technicians fit me in right away, and the treatment takes less than 10 minutes), then drive me back. It usually takes less than an hour door to door, and the hunky attendants are friendly and kind. Because I'm in a downtown 'hood I'm very familiar with, as we drive I enjoy gazing out through the ambulance window at all my old stomping grounds and remembering when I could navigate them easily and when my life was under my control.

Meanwhile, one becomes unintentionally knowledgeable about one's hospital roommate. Mine is a 47-year-old recovering crack addict and new grandmother who's been living in a shelter nearby and has a terrible lung infection. She's smart and personable and a little dramatic, but in a lot of pain. Her transgendered best friend clearly cares about her a lot, but her scruffy young boyfriend is controlling and sometimes mean to her. I'm rooting for her to get her surgery over with and follow her plan to go to college. In these circumstances, you not only get to hear one another's farts and peeing and vomiting and moans, but also intimate details of relationships and impressions through visitors. A weird and sudden camaraderie arises, if only in solidarity as sick people.

The Internet connection here is abysmal, so I hope I can actually post this.

Pollyanna moments:
• A visit from friends with their adorable seven-year-old son, who has the most amazing eyelashes I've ever seen on a human being, and drew me a picture of flowers and birds. And his mom brought homemade banana bread.
• A green orchid that fits perfectly on my tray table.
• Many other visits from friends and family.
• I can walk with my walker to the kitchen and heat up soup myself. Last night when I did so, there was a woman with two toddlers in there; I couldn't tell whether she was their mom or grandmom, probably the latter, and she was African. As I lumbered past with my hot soup, she shooed the kids out of the way and repeatedly told them to "let the grandma pass." I felt a little old at that, but I judged it a term of respect. Of course I'm plenty old enough to be someone's grandmother. I've even stopped minding when the nurses call me Mrs. Brouse. I deserve some terminology that acknowledges my senior position! I've heard that in other languages, like German and French, at a certain age the Mrs. term simply signals that you're older, not necessarily married, and I'm on board with that.