A visit to "the office".

I spent this morning visiting the SCCA folk again. Since I had a rough weekend (GI bloating and pain), they changed my meds. Prednisone steroids have gone from 10mg to 40mg per day. I expect my dearly departed great grandmother to take up ethereal residence in my ankles again.

But this was one of the days I noticed the cyclic nature of the cancer beast as it relates to human interaction. Because people prefer to be seen at a particular time of day, and because of scheduling requirements at the SCCA, waiting rooms tend to be filled with the same people week after week. I see the same faces and nod the usual nods on Tuesdays and Fridays. Funny thing is, I've never talked to any of them. Most of them only talk about their cancer, and that's not my cuppa when I meet a new person.

But I'll tell you some stories about the people I know: Obviously no real names.

"R" is the unabashedly gay phlebotomist who makes a special effort to get me as his patient. We talk about his boyfriend and his plans for the next year. Somehow, it makes the blood-letting more enjoyable.

"G" is my team nurse. She's one of those people who always has a good attitude. I like her.

And then, there are the patients: (Who I've never spoken to, but I listen a lot.)

There's the gaunt young lady with circulatory problems. Her hands turn dark when she stands, and those are her good days. She's probably 17-20 years old. I wish her luck and a speedy recovery.

There are all manner of "old folk" like me. Husband and wife teams who deal with "the job" in whichever way they can. 99% of these people have a positive attitude about their recovery and I think most of them have accepted their extra time as a gift.

And then there's a guy I'll call George. George is a character, and I mean a character in the literal sense. See, George wears cowboy clothes. George wears a denim jacket, denim pants, suitable shirt, and a straw cowboy hat that's a virtual caricature of a farmer's straw hat. George also carries around a large (18" high) golden egg. Yup. You read that right. A large golden egg. The egg has a hole in the bottom so he can stick his thumb in it to carry it with one hand. George even wears a single gardening glove to carry the egg so the gold paint doesn't get on his skin.

But George also wears comfortable Seattle-esque shoes. Klog looking things, shoes for ex-hippies. He's always accompanied by his son, a tall, good looking young man of mixed race. Judging by their vocabulary and speech patterns, both of them are well educated. Obviously, George isn't a chicken farmer, egg farmer, or even a post modernist bok choi farmer. He's an educated, liberal minded man with an alter-ego.

George has assumed a character. I've never seen George when he wasn't in farmer drag. The funny thing is, he seems to know LOTS of patients in the center. I guess his get-up has the same effect as my tiger ears. It makes people smile. It makes them start conversations.

Bravo George.