How much?

Match box houses
Originally uploaded by ZekiZeki

So Weill Cornell Presbyterian Hospital have a shiny new building that cost them $300m and looks - to my eyes at least - like a very nice Scandinavian airlines lounge (think SAS in Stockholm)...

You walk in to bleached floors, original art, tasteful furniture and a curvy desk that's home to no less than 5 equally curvy young receptionishs.

You fill out the insurance forms - everyone struggles with this. When did I last have a scan? When did I have a treatment? What are all my drugs? Is there an acceoptable "don't remember" response? I wonder why when they have my records they always hand me a blank form and ask me for my best guess at what those records say. A test for alzheimers perhaps?

Then you wait. And wait. My appointment is at 12.00. I arrive at 11.50. One of those terribly enthusiastic women bounds out - energy of a labrador, hair of a spaniel. You just know that in her spare time she volunteers, wears bright pants and believes in the healing power of a smile.

She gives me contrast solution. It has a flavor. Orange. This is new. I'm to have one glass a half hour for the next 2 hrs. 2 hrs? I've only brought a magazine. I comply. 3 hours go by... it's now 3pm so I approach the desk of the curvy young receptionists and ask 'how long?'.. one who looks Polish but has a softer more romantic accent places a call and 5 minutes later I'm in a back room, changing into a gown that barely covers the scars from the cat let alone my 'modesty'

Into a new room with a new MRI machine. It's warmer than usual. A man with a southern accent richer than Helmsley's dog talks me through everything and then leaves the room. Remotely they inject the dye into my system (I'll spend the next 12 hours trying to flush it) and I feel the familiar tingle... though this time it centres on my ass in not at all unpleasant fashion. The machine whirs and buzzes. I move in and out holding breath and urge to swallow as instructed. And then it's over.

I head for 'check out' and see that I have no co-pay then head into the street where I try to find food - it's 4am and I've not eaten yet.

A train to Lorimer puts me close enough to a post office to see me sending off the banker's check that will act as security deposit on Jude's place in Ann Arbor then it's a 2 mile walk to get the dog. The way back takes us past the newly expanded UVA Wines and so we pop in and grab a decent bottle of an unusual white before heading home.

I'm knackered now and kinda swaying (in the street someone screams at me "Do you want the whole sidewalk")... but I sit down to write a proposal for a job. It's good in that it's different rather than good in that it's good. But it takes a half hour and that's enough time spent thinking about the subject at hand.

Down to the neighbor's on 3. Their son is adorable... as is the next child to arrive - the people from 3a. Everyone has kids. Someone is pregnant again and I feel a rush of sadness at not having the time (or ability) to have kids. The argument stays the same. I don't want to have kids during a period where my chances of surving 5 years are less than 50%. 5 years from now we'll be too old to have kids. catch 22. Throw in chemo and you have a recipe for barren.

Dinner downstairs is great. The table is set. The take out is Thai and the people are bright, interesting and generous enough to indulge me in stories that aren't quite yet annecdotes. But they are getting closer.

It's 11.45 now. I have a cat on the desk and a dog at my feet. Jude is 'home' on Friday and so much more engaged in life since she moved to MI that it makes me smile just to think of her. Life is good. Let's just hope that the phone stays silent until the 25th when I head in to see the doctor. Bad news travels fast in oncology - so no news would be the best news of all,