July 8th

I'm starting to develop a routine in the hospital. My day begins early because a nurse has been coming in about 5:30 am to draw blood for the daily blood test. Then breakfast comes about 7 am, I have my hot washcloth bath and linen change about 9. Then it's the newspaper and a nap before lunch. My fever is gone. The chemo is leaving my system. I'm really feeling pretty good. I know most people think you should feel lousy when you go through this, but I can only assume that the 2-CdA that I have taken is a very mild form of chemotherapy.

I've talked to some of my friends on the telephone. My standard line is "Boy, what some guys will do to get cable TV." See, I live in the country, down in a valley and have never had very good TV reception, so it's a reasonable joke for me. In truth, I have been enjoying watching TV, as it helps pass the time. Dr. Thai has hinted that I may be here a week, and I am going to need some diversions to make it through easily. TV affords that. My other activity involves a stroll through the hallway a few times a day. The exercise is good but the view isn't. Each room I pass contains the withered body of someone aged who seems, to me at least, to be dying. I must seem extremely lively to the nurses working the floor. I have to wear a face mask as I wander about. My natural immunity is zilch, so I need protection from people who might be carrying life-threatening microbes.

I can handle this routine. But I really want to get out of here. I'm hanging my hopes on the blood test the next day. Maybe I'll show some improvement, that would hasten my exit from this dreary place.

July 9th