(no subject)

[malsperanza]

The fancyass research hospital where my mother is duking it out with her white blood cells has an indy bookshop, a cashpoint, valet parking (supposedly; I haven't seen any valets yet), and family waiting rooms with cherrywood paneling and overstuffed plush sofas. Magnificent views of the city. There are lithographs of the Tuilleries and Parc Montsouris on the walls. Most of the families in the room outside the isolation floor (one would not call it anything so tacky as a "ward") seem to be discussing money. They have laptops and spreadsheets; they are on the cellphone with cousin Mike about shifting investments from commercial real estate to something else. It could not be more creepy.

When I think of the public hospital where P. practiced for years, with its wan fluorescent lights and chipped plastic chairs and scuffed linoleum and the homeless men borrowing a few minutes out of the cold in the E.R., I am reminded of the reason I abandoned the freelance life for a straight job: health insurance
health insurance
health insurance.


Conversation with mum

Mum: The food in here is terrible.

Me (drawing feebly upon the worst of all perky hospital cliches): That's because you wouldn't leave otherwise. You have premium cable in here.

Mum (poking food): Find a better line. Listen, would you go downstairs to Au Bon Pain and get me some seafood chowder and a decent cup of coffee?

Me: There's an Au Bon Pain in this place?

Mum: On the second floor, next to the Starbuck's. Why?

Me: You don't see any peculiarity in a hospital having a coffee shop called The Good Pain?

Mum: Everyone in this a hospital is fluent in French; they know perfectly well what "pain" means.

Me: The patients too?

Mum: Of course. As soon as I'm not neutropenic any more, I'm signing up for the Tuesday night tango lessons. While you're there, could you also get me a coke?

Me: A coke? You hate coke.

Mum: I have leukemia. I can drink whatever the hell I want.

Me: It will replace your leukocytes with glucocytes.

Mum: Then I will be a true American: red-blooded and dripping with syrup.

Me: You realize that I am never going to let you forget this.

Mum: If you bring back Pepsi, I'm changing my will.