17. Surviving the Apocalpyse (yes, I found my sense of humor again)

4/2

My colleague Shem agreed to drive me to the hospital this morning, since it's a new building I've not been to - and I've been so hopelessly lost the last few times I've ventured out that my boss decided a preemptive escort was cheaper than a search party.  We're driving down the highway, and the ONLY thing that made me believe we weren't in on a post-Apocalyptic planet was the lack of flesh eating zombies.  There were NO cars on the road.  There were NO stores open.  There were NO restaurants doing take-or delivery orders.  Nothing.  

It. Was. Creepy. 

"Shem!  Should we seek out the other survivors or find a place to shelter before the acid rain starts?" I asked frantically.

"What are you talking about?"  He's from Kosovo.  And didn't major in Musical Theater.  Obviously, time for a new tactic.  I took the intelligent route.

"How fast do you think Zombies can actually move?  Would it vary depending on how fit someone was before they turned or would it be the undead strain of the virus that determined their pace?"

"What?  Are you feeling okay?  Oh, God, are you running a fever?  I seriously can't afford to be sick right now."

Okay, so much for small talk.   

We arrived safely at the hospital, and I followed the required safety procedures upon arrival.  They gave me booties for my shoes, a medical mask, and sprayed my arms and hands with some kind of homemade anti-bacterial goo that felt a bit like dishwashing liquid.  Then someone led me up to the office of the Chief Oncologist, Dr. Fatoni Sermaxhaj.  The doctor reviewed my hematology reports from  Acibadem and requested a few tests before he authorized chemo.  "Would you like me to write you a prescription for the tests?  Or would you prefer to just do them here?"

"Let's just do them and be done with it." I responded.  I appreciated that it wasn't a hard sell, but he really caught me off guard with that.  NOTHING is open other than hospitals and grocery stores, and even those have limited hours to correspond with the Kosovo wide driving ban after 1700.

First, I was led down to the laboratory where an incredibly talented nurse hit the vein without any problems whatsoever.  Unfortunately, her talent with a band-aid was less impressive - and she missed the injection site.  So I started bleeding, and trying to catch the blood in my other hand so it didn't drip on the floor.  When I pointed it out to one of the receptionists who were guiding me to radiology, she shrugged at me and kept walking.  It was a very, "DO NOT BREATHE ON ME, but I'm not worried about the blood" kind of vibe, so I just kept walking.

Next, there was a chest xray to make sure there are no abnormalities in the lungs.  I stood up against an xray machine that was SO COLD, I was convinced that my breasts would soon be frozen stuck to the machine (like a kid licking a flagpole) - but thankfully, tragedy was averted.

The abdominal ultrasound they did next was probably my favorite part of the day.  It was unpleasant, but the guy doing the ultrasound was doing his own narration - IN ENGLISH.  So he'd press this metal gizmo into my size really hard and then talk about how beautiful my spleen was, or how the liver was not fatty at all - it was perfect!  He gave me the rundown on the aesthetically pleasing aspects of each of my internal organs so poetically, I felt absolutely brilliant when I moved on to the next station.

Upstairs, the cardiologist also brought out an ultrasound machine to look at my heart.  I was looking forward to his verbal report, but rather than praise my ventricles, he simply said, "You need to stop eating carbs.  NOW.  And salt.  No more salt for you."  When the test is over, he very scientifically explained why eating carbs was incredibly bad for me and what it was doing to my heart.  I worried for a moment that he was going to say I wasn't healthy enough for chemo, but in the end he gave me his approval.

Back to the Chief Oncologist, who read through everyone's synopsis and approved me to begin chemotherapy.  In eight days.  "Would you like me to write you a prescription for the chemotherapy drugs so you can get them yourself?  Or would you like the hospital to take car of that for you?"

"Is there a huge price difference?"

"No, it will cost you the same either way."

"Is there a reason I'd want to get my own drugs?"

"Some people just like to do that."

"Oh.  No, I'm fine with the hospital taking care of that."

He took my height and weight and made some calculations on the dosages.   It'll be two specific drugs given six times at three week intervals - so the entire process will take 18 weeks.  Following that, I'll start radiation therapy - but they can't accommodate this in Pristina, so I'll have to figure out another provider for that later down the line.

Got back in the car and Shem asked me how everything went.  "I have an incredibly beautiful spleen."  I replied.  And we drove back to the base in relative silence.