Discover more from Pieces of String Too Small to Use
And back to tea heaven
I know what you’re thinking. I could have brought back a T-shirt, or one of those little ashtrays that you put unidentifiable stuff in on the hall table.
I even went to a tile store and spoke to the proprietor to arrange shipping in the future - I could have just bought one or two there, as a couple of my companions did to use as trivets or accent pieces on a wall.
I could have chosen something for myself at one of the many trinket shops when I was looking for small gifties to bring back for the kids. The selection was, if nothing else, varied.
Instead I brought back something many others have had, but that I’d so far escaped. While there’s no way to really know how I got it, I blame the large, florid man sitting next to me on my Porto-to-Amsterdam leg home who was coughing up a lung the entire 3-plus hours of the flight. When I offered him a mask he acted as if I’d offered him one of my damp socks.
I was the only one wearing a mask on that flight, save a woman, also an American, who was so annoying with her spraying and Lysol-wiping of her seat, armrest, tray table and all knobs and buttons a few seats back from me that I almost took mine of lest I be mistaken for her ally in any way.
Turns out I could have, and I could have eaten more of my lunch, and not hurled my body over it when opening the packages, making a lean-to out of my sweater and scarfing a bite, resealing the box, speed-chewing, and looking suspiciously around before reopening for the next mouthful.
I don’t want to brag, but I’m pretty good at penitentiary eating. I threw three-quarters of it in the trash bag passing by anyway. All for naught. But I was lucky that I didn’t get sick til I got home. It would have been way worse to feel like this in a hotel.
I have a few conditions that make me higher risk, including being on blood thinners, so I can’t take Paxlovid. My doctor therefore ordered Remdesivir, which “perturbs viral replication” and was originally evaluated in treating my favorite virus, Ebola.
You can imagine my delight. Not only was I Ebola-adjacent, but my treatment didn’t just prevent something, it perturbed it. If I’d been able to summon the energy to stand I’d have jumped for joy.
But there were no appointments available at the World’s Best Hospital, so they shunted me off to what, on a good day, may not be the world’s worst one, and a nice man scheduled me on Thursday for my three infusion treatments starting the next day: Friday, Saturday, Monday. Then he called back.
I’m so sorry - Monday is a holiday, so we can’t see you Friday, because we’d only be able to complete your third treatment Tuesday, and by then your first two infusions would be too far apart from your third, and we can’t start you Tuesday because you’ll be outside the magic window of efficacy. No, we can’t just give you two. You’ll need to call the in-home agency. Here’s the number.
So I called the number and a different nice man answered, and informed me that he was not the in-home treatment government agency. He was Dan, and the agency had put his number on the government website. But he hoped I found whatever treatment I needed.
I went back to the website, and Dan’s number was on all their contact pages but one, where the correct number lay safely hidden and not transposed. Dan: 644-7592. CDR: 664-7592.
Anyway, yesterday I finished my third transfusion. Today I took an entire shower, made myself soup, did a load of laundry and wrote this. I really feel like I’ve accomplished something. Now it’s time to get back to the yard care videos on Youtube. Unable to read, write, or focus on any movie or TV plot, they have been the mainstay of my waking-napping entertainment these last days. The leaf blower wakes you up, the edger lulls you back to sleep, the leaf blower wakes you up, the mower lulls you back to sleep…
Next time I’m getting tiles.
Thank [name preferred deity here] I’m in the land of actual tea again. It’s one thing to have the RoRo; it would be quite another to endure this with lukewarm half-cups of whatever that passive-aggressive swill was.
And yes, I’m fully aware that I’m complaining about small portions of terrible tea.
English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Constant Comment decaf for the napping, and all the Woo Teas - bring ‘em on!