Hmmm. Actually, on my own self-devised outcomes measurement scheme (which uses common household pets to symbolize the patient's well-being), I'm at the "cat" level (sleeping 18 hours a day, eating almost nothing, and feeling like hacking up hair balls all the time.) My goal is to reach "dog" by next week (which is identical to "cat" except without the picky appetite and hairballs part.)
Being in the hospital for 12 days was not fun, especially with the effects of one of the nastier chemo drugs manifesting themselves, one by one. I did get to study language diversity, ranging from the pert, starched young woman who sometimes brought food and announced herself as "diatectic," to the older, more ample employee who kicked the door open, saying "Got your brekfoose!"
My favorite moment, though, was the one night they thought they needed a chest x-ray of me. By the time the orders for this filtered through the layers of bureaucracy, it was 8:00 PM when they finally sent a cart for me. Covered in a blanket and wearing a respiratory mask, I was wheeled down through the bowels of the hospital and left lying in a bleak corridor. Eventually, a huge, impressive Star-Trek style set of automatic doors swung open. A disembodied voice said, "Ah, kiss my ass," and the doors swung shut again.
Ah, and then the food. Let a few photos suffice to describe it.
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