WAITING FOR DR COMENZO

Well, it could be a little like waiting for Godot especially if you didn’t bring the necessary distractions to stave off ontological insecurity. Usually I have some company for a visit, but I was prepared with the next two books for my book group. The first hour went quickly. I read quietly. Then a man and his wife and son sat down next to an older gentleman who was ready to talk. The younger man said he was checking in for his transplant and the older guy Fitz chimed in, “those rooms are beautiful.” I couldn’t resist. I told them I was just out of the hospital for two weeks after my second transplant. I told him the first time I had a view of the Fifty Ninth Street Bridge and that I had decorated my room reminiscent of college. The nurse came for him and he was off for his adventure.
Fitz moved over to sit next to me and regale me with stories of his boxing career, his early morning adventures, delivering milk with the milkman in his horse driven buggy. He told me he lived and Howard Beach and told me about the way things were with Al Capone-“If you can’t do the job right, don’t do the job!’ Johnny Blue Eyes The fate of Jimmy Hoffa Just how many people were in on the fix? He talked nonstop for about two hours before he was called in, but not before he let me feel his bicep-quite impressive and amazing for an 80 year old man and he showed me some pump on his chest the was a vestige of his gallbladder surgery of two weeks ago. So the first three hours of waiting for Dr. C passed quickly. I read for another hour and then the nurse called my name. There would be another hour to wait. I was exhausted! When I realized it was six o’clock and I would never make my 6:30 therapy app’t, I actually started to cry, the toddlers do when they’re overtired ad refuse to sleep.
I told the nurse my problem. She said he’d be in soon and he asked that I lie down. Like those toddlers too cranky for sleep who sometimes end up sleeping by putting their head down while they’re still standing up, I wiggled the back of my head into the pillow and dozed off until Dr Comenzo came in.

I have never had a doctor who kept me waiting like this before. When I was pregnant with my son, the most popular OBGYN (handsome with an Italian accent) always had a three-hour wait. I saw Dr Kraft who was wonderful and I always thought he looked like Superman, but I didn’t wait forever.
Whenever Dr Comenzo comes into the examination room, I feel that his attention is completed focused on me. I watch his mind sort through the data, patiently answering all my questions. I forgive him; I empathize that his day must be incredibly strenuous. He checks my heart rate and tells me that it’s elevated and that I’m dehydrated. He listened to the course of events over the last few days. He tells me that an elevated heart rate increases anxiety. I tell him that I have felt a tension in my chest-a nervousness. I told him I don’t generally feel anxious, dark dramatic depression is my specialty. He laughs and says you don’t look very dark today. When I first came home I was putting in 19 hours a day. You need to get out more I want you to come into the hospital tomorrow for hydration and again on Fri and next week too. This will pull you through the dehydration. Everything else is wonderful. The results of the bone marrow biopsy before the second transplant were perfect-no cancer could be detected.
I asked him when I could fly and he said August-finally free!
I have felt dehydrated before. After a long bicycle ride or an extensive walk, so I can home and drank water—a lot of water. Now one month after transplant #2, my doctor notes that my heart rate is 118 as opposed to its usual 70. He says I have to come back to the hospital twice a week for the next two weeks for hydration. I guess it’s not just drinking water; I’ll need an IV.
The receptionist made the four appointments for me and said, “You know the hydration takes three hours plus wait time and you can only use one hand. “It’s all about the iPod,” I said.